


Breaking The Silence

by NotYouAgain



Category: CSI: NY
Genre: Domestic Violence, M/M, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2018-10-15 11:49:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 9
Words: 58,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10555834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotYouAgain/pseuds/NotYouAgain
Summary: It's been nearly five years since Danny broke it off with Don. Now Danny is blissfully happy with Mac, while Don also appears to have moved on. But Don has a secret, one which threatens to destroy him if he cannot break his silence.And, as always, there are the usual murders to contend with...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Contains graphic depictions of domestic violence throughout, including physical, mental and sexual abuse. If you think that any of these might cause you distress or upset you, please turn back now. I would hate to think that I had stirred up any bad memories. If you decide to continue reading, I hope that I have approached the subject with some sensitivity. Please let me know if this is not the case.  
> Feedback is appreciated if anyone has the time or the inclination.

February 2nd:

 

At six feet two, Don Flack could cut an imposing, sometimes intimidating figure. Yet at this moment, as Danny watched him kneel on the threadbare carpet in front of the closet door, speaking in a voice so soft that it was almost angelic, he was the very picture of gentleness.

“C’mon sweetheart, it’s okay, you don’t have to be scared anymore. I’m a cop. See my buddy Danny there?” He jerked his thumb over his shoulder in Danny’s direction. “He’s a cop too. We’re not gonna let anyone hurt you. That’s a promise. Cops aren’t allowed to lie, ain’t that right Danny?”

“That’s right. So you know we mean it.” Danny smiled reassuringly.

There was movement in the dark recess of the closet, a whispered exchange, and then a small figure slowly emerged into the dim light of the bedroom. The girl couldn’t have been more than seven years old, her face was streaked with tears and her white nightgown was torn along the bottom edge. Behind her came a small boy, about four, wiping his nose on his blue race car pyjamas and trembling uncontrollably. Both kids were clearly terrified, and Danny had to fight the urge to go downstairs and punch someone.

The little girl was staring warily at Don. “Are you really a policeman?” In her childish voice it came out as ‘pleesman’.

“Absolutely.” Don held out his badge for her to study. “See? The genuine article.”

There was a long moment of silence, and then, as if suddenly released from her fear, the girl ran to Don and threw herself into his arms, burying her face into his shirt. She held out a hand behind her and her little brother came forward to clasp it. He stared at Don and Danny in turn, his blue eyes wide with fright and confusion.

“Is Mommy gonna be OK, mister?” the girl asked, her voice muffled by Don’s shirt.

Danny saw Don’s shoulders rise as he took a deep, slow breath before replying, “The ambulance is taking your mommy to the hospital. They have great doctors there, and they’re gonna do everything they can to make her better.”

Good answer, Danny applauded silently. Reassuring, yet without false promises. Cops can’t lie. From the look of her injuries, Mommy would be lucky to make it through the night.

Jo was standing at the bottom of the stairs. “Well, Edward Moss certainly didn’t take kindly to being arrested. It took five minutes and three guys to get him into the car. I haven’t heard such foul language since... Oh, those poor babies!” She held out her arms to take the little boy from Danny. Clearly the kid felt safer in a woman’s presence, he clung to Jo like a limpet.

The girl hung back warily until Don bent down and said “That’s my friend Jo. She’s gonna look after you for a while. She’s the nicest person I know and she’s gonna take real good care of you and your brother, okay? Trust me, if I was ever hurt or scared she’s who I’d want takin’ care of me.”

Jo’s mouth turned up slightly at the corners. “If I didn’t know better, Don Flack, I would think that you were spinning me a line.”

Don gave her a roguish grin. “Did it work?”

“No, but keep trying.” Jo lead the kids outside, skirting around Mac as he walked through the front door.

“I get here five minutes late and you guys start without me? Don, are you okay?” Mac had seen the blood on Don’s face.

“I’m fine, Mac. The guy tried to throw a punch and grazed me with that big-ass ring of his. It’s just a scratch.”

“Well, I just hope Owen gives you a little TLC when you go home.”

Don laughed lightly. “I doubt it, he’s been even busier than I have this week. I’ll get cleaned up back at the precinct. Right now I think I’ll go see how they’re getting on with Mr Moss.” He strode out through the front door, leaving Mac and Danny alone in the dingy hallway.

“So what happened?”

“Well, when the DNA results confirmed that Edward Moss was our guy we came straight here to pick him up. Dispatch called while we were on route. Kelly Moss had called 911 saying that her dad was trying to kill her mom. By the time we got here Mrs Moss was lyin’ here in the hallway lookin’ like she’d been hit by a truck. We found Moss upstairs tryin’ to drag Kelly and her little brother out of the closet they were hiding in.” Danny rubbed the back of his neck. He could feel a headache creeping up on him. “I dunno, Mac. No matter how many times I see this kinda thing I still can’t figure out how a guy could hurt his wife or kids like that. I mean, if this is what he does to the people he cares about...”

“Well, we’ve seen what he does to the people he doesn’t care about.” Mac gave him a sympathetic little smile. “I know it’s easier said than done, but try not to let it get to you, Danny.”

“Yeah, I know,” Danny replied. “That’s the one problem with this job, you get to see the worst of people.”

Mac put a hand on Danny’s shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Danny was tempted to reach out and draw the older man in for a hug, but that was out of the question, Mac insisted on remaining professional while on the job. Later on, when they finally finished their respective shifts and crawled into bed together there would be time for more comforting contact.

“We also get to see the best in people. Especially the people we work with every day. Don’t forget that.” There was a moment’s silence, and then Mac removed his hand from Danny’s shoulder. “Come on, let’s start going over this scene. It looks like Moss will be going to jail for the attempted murder of his wife as well as rape.”

                                 

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Jo was in the corridor talking to a harassed-looking woman when Mac walked into the precinct later. “Ms Hennesy, we have proof that your sister’s husband was responsible for a number of very brutal rapes in the Queens area. From what Kelly and Tommy told us, Hannah found out what he’d done and when Edward came home she confronted him. She told him that she was leaving with the kids. He became enraged and attacked her.”

The woman was wringing her hands in agitation. “I told her. Time and time again I told her he was no good for her. She wouldn’t leave him. No matter how badly he treated her she always insisted that he loved her, deep down. That he just... had trouble showing it. She’s going to be okay, isn’t she? They wouldn’t tell me anything at the hospital.”

Jo gave the distressed woman her most reassuring smile. “Your sister must be a very strong woman to stand up to a man like Edward Moss. I’m sure she’ll fight as hard as she can to pull through.”

The woman let out a snort of bitter derision. “It’s a shame she didn’t stand up to him sooner, before it got this bad.” She looked Jo directly in the eye. “Just promise me he’ll never see the light of day again.”

“Oh, believe me, Edward Moss is going to spend the rest of his life behind bars.”

The woman nodded grimly. “Can I see my niece and nephew now?”

“Of course.” Jo opened the door to the office where she had been questioning the children and gestured the woman inside. She stood on the threshold for a few moments, watching, then stepped back, closing the door quietly.

“Hannah Moss’s sister?” Mac asked.

Jo nodded. “Lisa Hennesy. She’s come to take the kids home with her. They don’t seem particularly sorry to see the back of their father, they say he’s been beating their mother for years. She stayed with him for the kids’ sake but apparently drew the line at living with a multiple rapist.”

“The things people do for love,” Mac observed dryly.

“Speaking of love...” There was a sly expression on Jo’s face, “You are going home on time tonight, aren’t you? ‘Cause you’ve been working too many double shifts lately and I don’t think Danny’s going to put up with it much longer.”

Mac gave a weary smile. “If I said I wasn’t you’d just kick me out of the door anyway.”

“I would personally drag you back to your apartment in handcuffs.” Jo put an affectionate arm around his shoulders. “Go home, Mac Taylor. Spend at least one night this week with Danny. You’ve both earned a break.”

Mac held up his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay, I’m going”

 

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Danny grinned as Mac flopped down onto the bed next to him. “You look as exhausted as I feel.”

“I am,” Mac replied. “But we took a very dangerous man off the streets, and if it took a few long shifts and sleepless nights to do it then it’s worth it.”

“Job satisfaction right there.” Danny rolled onto his side, facing the older man. “So, you got enough left in you to have a little fun, or do I have to put myself to sleep tonight?”

Mac chuckled. ”I swear sometimes you forget I’m not as young as you are. Just because you’re up for sex every five minutes doesn’t mean I am.”

“C’mon, I’ll be gentle. I’ll take it so slow you won’t even know you’re inside me.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Mac turned to Danny, smiling. “Just take it easy on an old man, okay?”

“You ain’t that fuckin’ old.” Danny snaked an arm over Mac’s shoulder and shifted closer to him. Lying face to face, Danny brushed his lips against Mac’s, gently at first, then more demanding, until finally the older CSI yielded, allowing Danny to explore his mouth with his tongue. Mac tasted of toothpaste and coffee, the lingering flavour of the latter a testament to just how much of the stuff the man had drunk over the last few days. He could feel the tension in his lover’s shoulders, and pressed a little harder with his fingers, trying to work out the knots. “And you’re the one telling me not to let the case get to me.” He nuzzled Mac’s neck. “Relax, babe, I’ll do the work tonight.”

“You have no idea how good that sounds.”

Mac rolled onto his back and allowed Danny to climb on top of him. Danny continued nuzzling and nipping at the skin on his neck, before moving lower across his chest and stomach. Sliding down between his legs, Danny wrapped his fingers around Mac’s cock, moving his hand up and down with gentle strokes before taking it’s length into his mouth. He sucked slowly but deeply, loving the way Don’s manhood touched the very back of his throat...

Danny almost choked. Shit, now was not a good time for images of Don Flack to be popping into his head. It had been happening more and more frequently, even since he had started going steady with Mac four years ago. Why couldn’t he get the guy out of his head? It wasn’t as if it had ever been serious between them. Well, kinda semi-serious maybe, but it had been so long since... And Don had moved on, he had Owen, the fantastically successful sales manager of a major pharmaceutical company. It was a pretty clear bet that Don was not thinking about him right now.

“Hey, I thought you were going to take it easy.” Mac was leaning up on his elbows, looking at Danny with a mildly amused expression. “I know you’ve been deprived for the last few days but try not to hurt yourself, Ok?”

Danny swallowed. “Sorry, Mac, got a bit too excited.” He bent his head down and went back to work on Mac’s cock, glad that the man could not see his face from here. He was blushing furiously, he could feel it, and there was a tight knot in his stomach. Why the hell would he be thinking of Don at a time like this? It was Mac he loved, he had no doubt about that. His life had become so much better since he and Mac had become a couple. Somehow being with him had curbed his short temper, his reckless impulses. He felt... calmer...happier, with Mac. So happy! The guilt grew until it threatened to crush him. The very thought of being unfaithful to Mac, even if it was only in his head, was unbearable.

Danny forced the guilt down as he moved up to straddle the older man and allowed himself to slip slowly down onto the smooth shaft. He loved a good, hard fuck, no question, but this... This slow, languid lovemaking... This was bliss. Nothing else existed but him and the man beneath him. Nothing but Mac. He leaned forward to kiss his lover again, all thought of Don Flack forgotten.

 

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February 3rd

 

Don stretched and leaned backwards on his chair, threatening to tip it over. His cheek still stung slightly where Moss had caught him with his ring the day before, but it was more annoying than painful.

Taking down a suspect might be difficult, dangerous work, but it was far preferable to this. Paperwork. Reams of the damn stuff. Much as it pleased him to know that he had put a dangerous man behind bars, he always dreaded the end of a case. He hated having to fill out the endless forms and write report after report, repeating the same things over and over. Edward Moss, arrested second of February for multiple rapes, all by the book, no misconduct to report, everything wrapped up nice and neat, he could write it all in his sleep. Most of all, he hated having to go back over everything to check for spelling mistakes. Spelling was not one of his strong points.

Don yawned and looked up at the clock on the wall. Shit, he was five minutes into his lunch hour. He had to go find those mushrooms that Owen wanted. It wouldn’t wait till after his shift, Owen had insisted that he needed them asap. He was cooking for a group of reps from his company, which meant some fancy-ass French recipe and long, boring conversations about sales figures and growth forecasts which Don would only pretend to understand. If he kept smiling and nodding in the right places he might get through the evening without making too much of a fool of himself.

Don stood up, wiggled his left foot, which had gone to sleep, and headed for the door. If he hurried he might just make it to the store and back before his lunch break was over.

 

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“Told you this wasn’t a good place to play.”

“Shuddup and give me a boost already!”

The taller boy sighed and heaved his smaller companion up until he could reach the glassless window. “This place ain’t safe, man. Looks like the whole building’s about to collapse.”

“It’s looked that way for years. Now c’mon, I gotta get my baseball back.”

“If you could hit worth a damn it wouldn’t have gone through the window in the first place.”

The smaller boy ignored this remark and pulled himself up onto the window ledge. He shuffled round and reached down to his friend. “Well, c’mon then, I ain’t goin’ in there by myself.”

The taller boy sighed again, reached up and allowed himself to be dragged through the window. The inside of the abandoned building was dark, and the two boys had to put their hands over their noses and mouths to avoid breathing in years worth of dust.

“We’re never gonna find it in here. It’s way too dark.”

“Think positive, man, think positive.”

They picked their way over fallen masonry and heaps of discarded bricks, the grimy floorboards creaking loudly beneath their feet.

“If someone hears us in here...”

“Who’s gonna hear us? Besides, no one lives here, it’s not as if we’re brakin’ into someone’s house or anything. Hey, there it is!”

Squinting through the gloom, the taller boy could just make out a small white object lodged at the top of a large pile of rubble.

The smaller boy slapped his friend happily on the shoulder. “See? That’s the power of positive thinking.” He stepped forwards and stretched his arm upwards, trying to reach the ball. “Y’know, you could give me a hand here. You can reach it better than I can.”

“You were the one who hit it through the damn window. Martin, wait!” He pointed. “Look, man, that whole wall’s collapsed. You keep screwin’ around you’re gonna bring the whole place down on us.”

“So help me get it so we can get outta here.”

After a long moment of hesitation the tall boy joined his companion, Martin, at the foot of the heap. He was a good six inches taller than the other boy, but even standing on tiptoe he couldn’t reach the baseball. Cautiously, he put his foot on a large block of crumbling brick and plaster, using it to step up closer to the ball. “You owe me for this, man.”

Martin grinned up at him. “I’ll let you win the next game.”

The taller boy snorted and scrambled higher up the heap. He reached up as far as he could stretch his arm, his fingertips barely an inch away from his goal, and his heart leapt into his mouth as he felt the rubble shift beneath him. He started to scrabble his way back down but he couldn’t move fast enough. There was a deafening rumbling noise, and then everything went dark.

For several seconds all he could hear was a ringing sound in his ears, then Martin’s voice broke through, muffled at first but becoming clearer by the second.

“David? David, are you okay?”

There was a lot of clattering, and then Martin appeared in his field of vision, pulling the chunks of masonry off of him and hauling him to his feet. “Shit, David, are you alright? I’m so sorry, man, I should never have got you to go after that damn ball. Are you okay? Oh fuck, you’re bleeding!”

The tall boy, David, put a hand up to his forehead. His fingers came away red, but it didn’t feel like anything more than a scratch. “I’m okay. C’mon, let’s get outta here before anything else falls on me.” He turned to go back to the window, and paused when he saw that Martin hadn’t moved. “C’mon man, let’s go.”

Still Martin did not move. He was staring at something among the fallen bricks and cement. David turned back and his jaw dropped as he saw what had been uncovered when the rubble heap had collapsed.

“What the fuck..?”

 

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“I uh... Sorry?”

The girl gave him a look of mixed suspicion and pity. Don couldn’t really blame her, he was aware that he was staring at her stupidly with his mouth open. “I’m sorry sir, we’re all out of fresh chanterelle mushrooms at the moment,” she repeated slowly, confirming Don’s suspicion that she probably thought that he wasn’t all there.

His whole body seemed numb, he could hear his own heartbeat thudding behind his eardrums and his mouth had gone dry. His stomach felt as if it had dropped ten feet. How could they be out? This couldn’t be happening, please God, this couldn’t be happening...

The girl’s face softened and became a little more sympathetic. “We do have some dried chanterelles, aisle five on the left. Soak them in some warm water for a while and they’re just as good as the fresh ones.”

Don stuttered a few words of thanks and headed for aisle five. He picked up the little package of dried mushrooms and looked at it closely. Once, when he was still a rookie cop, someone had sent an ear to the precinct in a cardboard box. It had clearly been parted from its owner some time before being sent, the severed appendage had looked grey and slightly shrivelled. Quite a lot like these mushrooms, in fact. They were about the most unappetising thing he had ever seen. Were they even edible?

The words on the package were blurry, and Don realised that his hand was shaking There must be another store close by, surely it wouldn’t matter if he got back late to the precinct just this once...

The part of his brain that wasn’t descending into panic registered a cheerful little noise somewhere nearby, but it took a few moments for him to realise that it was coming from his pocket.

“Flack,” He answered his cell phone, trying to suppress the tremor in his voice. He listened, barely able to hear the caller’s voice over the sound of his own breathing. “Okay, I’m on my way there now.”

He hung up, feeling empty and overwhelmed at the same time. Something, some higher power, was playing a sick joke on him. Why now? Of all the times for a body to show up, why now?

 

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Great sex with Danny, followed by a good night’s sleep, had put Mac in a good mood which even the sight of the dead man at his feet could not dampen. At least he guessed it was a man, the level of decomposition made it hard to tell. The body had clearly lain here undisturbed for quite some time.

“We won’t know the cause of death until we get him back to the morgue.” Hawkes looked up at him. “Best guess I can make at the moment is blunt force trauma to the head, the skull’s pretty caved in.”

“Could the rubble falling on him have caused those injuries?”

“It’s possible. Sid will be able to tell us more once he’s done the autopsy. First thing will be to try and establish who he is, there was no ID on the body, and the injuries plus the decomposition will make him pretty much impossible to recognise. Unless his DNA’s on file already we could be in for a long wait. There’s some trace on the body here,” He nudged a small grey fleck with a pair of tweezers. “With any luck it might give us something to go with.”

“Well, let’s hope we get lucky.” Mac turned to Don, who was scribbling something in his notebook. “Who found the body?”

Don pointed at two teenage boys sitting on a low wall nearby. They were both clearly in a state of shock. “David Harris, and his friend, Martin Chapman. They climbed in through a window to retrieve a lost baseball and dislodged a heap of masonry. They found John Doe buried underneath.”

There was a long pause. Mac waited for one of Don’s customary wisecracks, but none was forthcoming. They had been fewer and farther between lately. “Did you contact the building’s superintendent?” he prompted.

“Uh... No, there isn’t one. The place has been empty for years. There’s a security guard who walks by a couple times a night but he doesn’t remember ever seeing anything unusual.”

Again there was a pause. Mac frowned. At this stage of an investigation Don would usually be rattling off every piece of information he had collected in his notebook for Mac’s benefit, potential witnesses, people connected to the crime scene or the victim etc. Today the tall detective seemed preoccupied, as if he had something more important on his mind. “Any of the neighbours ever report anything suspicious?”

Don blinked a couple of times, as if the question had taken him by surprise, then looked at the little book. “Apart from complaining that the building’s an eyesore and should’ve been demolished ages ago, no one has anything to say about it.”

Mac observed his friend closely. Don looked pale and seemed rather jumpy. There was a clatter as someone kicked a loose brick across the floor and the younger man started as if the sound had been a gunshot.

“Don, is something wrong?” Mac asked, not unkindly. “You’re not yourself today.”

Don looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. “Huh..? Uh, no, I’m okay, I just...” He seemed to deflate a little. “It’s just... Owen’s got this big dinner party tonight for some guys from his company and I said I’d pick up a few things he needed, and now this has come up and...”

Mac held up a hand. “Say no more. Finish your shift and go home, Ok? I’ve got this.”

“Are you sure? I really oughta...”

“I mean it. You’ve been working too hard, have a night off. Besides,” Mac smirked and patted his shoulder, “It’s kinda cute seeing you all domesticated. Owen must be good for you.”

Don gave a shaky laugh. “Yeah... yeah, he is.” He gave Mac a look of almost pathetic gratitude. “Thanks, Mac, you have no idea how much I needed this. I’ll make it up to you, Scouts honour.”

“Just make sure you get some rest. I need you on the ball at work, okay?”

Mac watched as Don turned away to speak to Hawkes, a slight scowl on his face. It wasn’t like Don to be so distracted on a case, and he certainly wasn’t the type to get upset about the prospect of missing a dinner party, in fact, Mac was surprised that he hadn’t offered to work overtime in order to get out of it. Owen must really mean a lot to Don.

He had only met Owen Keller once, when the team had gone out to a bar one evening after concluding a particularly difficult case and Don had asked if he could come along and meet them, and Mac had not really taken to the man. He was big, a few inches taller even than Don, built like a boxer, and loud with it. He had been the perfect gentleman, charming, witty and generous (none of the CSI’s could remember having to buy their own drinks that night) and had dominated the conversation with the younger members of the team hanging on his every word, but Mac had found him rather brash and over-confident. Still, no one seemed to have a bad word to say about the guy, perhaps Owen just rubbed him the wrong way.

Maybe it had something to do with the change he’d noticed in Don. The younger detective seemed to have matured rapidly over the last couple of years, the sarcasm and smart-ass remarks had dwindled, giving way to a more sober and serious Don Flack, and, while the new version was rather easier to work with, Mac had to admit that he missed the old Don.

Still, people changed, and there was nothing to be done about that. He was sure that he’d changed since being with Danny. For the first time in years he was completely happy. He wondered, briefly, how things might have turned out if Danny had stayed with Don (while it had not been common knowledge, most of the team had been aware of their relationship) but it was not something which he would allow himself to dwell upon. Things had simply not worked out between the two young men, and now he was gloriously happy with Danny, and while Owen might grate on his nerves a bit, if Don was happy then Mac had no right to begrudge him that.

‘It’s kinda cute seeing you all domesticated.’ He had used the word cute in a conversation about Flack. Mac chuckled at his own use of the affectionate term. He had been working with that man waaaay too long.

 

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Don opened the door quietly. He could hear music coming from the kitchen, Owen liked to have classical music playing while he cooked. It was Vivaldi’s ‘Winter’, Don had bought him the CD for Christmas last year. He made his way slowly towards the sound.

Owen’s apartment was huge, minimally and tastefully furnished in grey and cream tones, all leather and polished wood. It was nothing like Don’s old place, which had been a clutter of mismatched furniture and odd bits and pieces. He still wasn’t sure he was used to such luxury yet, and he had been living here for the best part of three years.

He stopped at the threshold of the kitchen. Owen stood at the stove, stirring a large pan full of golden liquid. From the smell it was obviously for dessert, and Don’s sweet tooth kicked in with a vengeance, making his mouth water. He wished he could enjoy the sensation, but his hands were shaking again and his whole body felt like it had been filled with ice. He stood rooted to the spot, unwilling to move, wanting nothing more than to be able to stay here, silent and unnoticed, but he knew it wouldn’t help.

He forced himself to step into the kitchen and tried to clear his throat to announce his presence, but his mouth had dried out again. He took a deep breath and tapped lightly on the wall.

The big man jumped and spun around. “For God’s sake, Don, don’t sneak up on me when I’m concentrating.”

“Sorry.”

Don had expected Owen to be pissed off at being disturbed, but to his surprise he didn’t seem too annoyed. Then again, Owen was usually pretty cheerful when he was entertaining, the prospect of being the centre of attention was something he relished. How long would that last, Don wondered?

He could feel the familiar tremors threatening to engulf him and it took all his resolve to keep his hand from shaking as he took the package of dried mushrooms out of his pocket and placed them on the counter. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. “They were out of fresh ones, and then I got called out to a crime scene and I didn’t have time to go look anywhere else...” His voice trailed off.

Owen was staring at the mushrooms as if they were some alien lifeform that had materialised out of nowhere on his kitchen counter. Don could feel his own pulse getting quicker, and there was a heaviness like a lead weight in the pit of his stomach. His body seemed to have frozen. Owen’s gaze shifted to his face, the slate-grey eyes boring into him, and Don had the distinct feeling that his partner was reading his mind. I tried, he found himself thinking, as if Owen could really hear him, I really wanted to get the right thing for you. I’m sorry I let you down.

The silence, broken only by Vivaldi, stretched on and on until Don was on the verge of screaming, then, just as it was becoming unbearable, Owen’s mouth turned up a the corners and he gave Don an amiable smile. “It’s okay. You’d better go shower and change, they’ll be here soon.”

Don almost laughed, the relief was immense. “Are you sure? I really am sorry, if it wasn’t for this new case dropping into my lap I would’ve. ..”

Owen turned back to the stove, waving an impatient hand at him. “No problem. Now go make yourself look presentable. Wear that new shirt I bought you, it brings out your eyes.”

Don scuttled off to the bathroom, where he stripped off his work clothes. He caught sight of his face in the mirror as he was about to step into the shower, seeing the dark circles that were beginning to creep up under his eyes, and laughed at himself. Had he really gotten so worked up over a few dumb mushrooms? You been a cop too long, Flack, he chided himself, always expectin’ the worst.

 

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Don sat back and let the words pass over his head. Owen and his buddies (except Owen would never call them that; ‘colleagues’ sounded far more professional) were discussing the effects that their latest drug had had on a bunch of chimpanzees. The results sounded rather unpleasant, so Don had tuned out that particular conversation.

The people sat around the huge polished oak dining table were all pretty similar, hotshot men and women who wore silk shirts and pencil skirts even outside of work and who clearly spent huge amounts of money on hair products and orthodontists. The men in the group were accompanied by their equally interchangeable wives, who all stared daggers at each other but seemed to have little to say. The only exceptions were Owen himself, who towered over everyone else even when sitting down, and a chubby young woman called Rae, with long purple hair and a pierced nose, the partner of one of Owen’s female colleagues. “Not the kind of person I would normally associate with,” Owen had said earlier as he uncorked a bottle of red wine, “But I can’t exactly invite Helena without her.” Don liked her. She yawned a lot and rolled her eyes comically at him whenever anyone started into a long, boring speech about company ethics or growth ratios. Clearly she felt as out of place as he did.

“I was solely responsible for closing the deal with ProPharm last month,” one of the guys was saying as Don tuned back in. He thought the guy’s name was Chad, or Chaz, or something like that. “If I ever become a manager I’m giving myself one hell of a pay rise.”

"Well, just make sure it’s all above board if you do,” Owen laughed. “After that two million dollars disappeared they’re triple checking every transaction the company makes.”

“I wish whoever took it had sent a few grand my way,” a woman (Dianne, was it?) said, stabbing at her mushroom risotto with her spoon. “Maddison’s turning sixteen next month and she’s been bugging me for a car. Her best friend was given a new Mercedes for her birthday so of course she has to have something better. I told her, ‘Money isn’t everything, no one’s going to judge you for driving around in a second hand car.’“

Dianne, whom Don had earlier heard making bitchy remarks to Chad/Chaz about Helena’s budget suit (“Couldn’t have cost more than three hundred dollars, how cheap can you get?”) sighed theatrically and took an overly large mouthful of risotto and started swallowing frantically in an effort to make it go down. Don had to suppress a snigger, Rae with the purple hair was giggling into a napkin.

“So, Owen, what’s this I hear about the company thinking of taking on more reps?” More business talk, and Don tuned out again. He ate his own risotto slowly. While he appreciated the time and effort that Owen put into his cooking, he had to admit there were nights when he wished that he could just order a pizza and eat it on the couch in front of the TV. Even when it was just the two of them, Owen insisted upon eating at the dining table ‘like civilised people’. He sighed inwardly. Only the first course and he was bored out of his mind already.

 

                                                              XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Danny put his head around the door to Mac’s office. His older lover’s face was illuminated by the computer screen and for a moment he didn’t seem to notice Danny’s presence. “Hey.” Mac raised his eyes from the screen and smiled at him. “My shift’s over. Should I wait for you or should I go home ?”

Mac gave him an almost wistful look. “You’d better go. I’m probably going to be another hour or so.”

“Anything to go on yet?”

“Not yet. We’re processing the vic’s clothing but that could take a while. There was hardly any evidence at the scene, no blood or bodily fluids. Sid’ll do the autopsy in the morning, there’s not much more we can do till then. I’m just writing up our preliminary findings.”

Danny crossed the room, leaned down to Mac and kissed his temple. “Okay then. I’ll go home and clean up, then I’ll order takeout. What do you want to eat tonight?”

“You take care of yourself, I’ll get something later.”

Danny shook his head firmly. “Uh uh. If I don’t order for you as well, you won’t eat. Besides, it’s only an hour or two. And I wanna eat with you. So, whadd’ya want?”

Mac shook his head at the young man’s tenacity. “Well, if you insist, Chinese would be good.”

“Done.” Danny kissed him again and turned towards the door, but Mac suddenly called him back.

“Danny, have you spoken to Flack recently?”

“Well, yeah, we were working the Moss case together a couple days ago.”

“No, I mean, has he spoken to you about anything other than work?“

“We talked about the ball game last week.” Danny paused, thinking. “Other than that, not really. Come to think of it, we don’t really talk all that much any more. He’s got his own stuff goin’ on.”

“But you two are still close, right?”

Danny shrugged. “We seem to have grown apart. We don’t really hang out together any more and, well, he’s got Owen to go home to. He just doesn’t seem to have much time for anything else. Why, is he okay?”

Mac nodded slowly, not taking his eyes off Danny. Had he noticed the sadness in Danny’s voice as he talked about the growing distance between himself and his closest friend? “I’m sure he’s fine, he just seemed a little out of it this afternoon. Apparently Owen’s throwing some dinner party tonight, he didn’t seem to be looking forward to it.”

Danny snorted. “Poor Donnie, if you’d asked him a few years ago that would have been his idea of hell. I wonder if he’s bored yet?”

“I know I would be.” Mac returned his gaze to the screen. “I ought to get on with this.”

Danny smiled. “Okay, I’ll see you in a while. I’ll go order the food. And I got dibs on the extra wonton.”

 

                                                            XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Don dropped another empty wine bottle into the garbage bag and yawned. He wasn’t sure what he disliked most, the interminable dinner parties or having to clean up after them. He would have to go to bed soon, it was almost midnight and he had to start early tomorrow. He emptied a couple of stinking ashtrays into the bag and then, seeing no more trash to pick up, lugged it to the kitchen where Owen was stacking the dishes. “I think that’s the last of it. Anything else to go in before I take this lot to the garbage chute?”

Owen did not reply. He continued to stack the dishes, staring straight ahead, his face expressionless. Don felt a familiar wave of nausea wash over him. Shit.

“Owen?” He tried again. Still no response. It was as if his partner could neither see nor hear him. “Okay, well, I’ll just go get rid of this, and then I think I’ll go to bed. Gotta be up early and all...” He was backing towards the door even as he spoke.

“Do you do it on purpose?”

Don froze. Somewhere in his head an alarm bell was sounding. “What?”

The big man turned to face him. “I mean, are you just stupid, or do you deliberately set out to make me look bad?”

He couldn’t breathe. The alarm had turned into a whining cacophony. “I... I don’t...”

Owen advanced on him, the huge, thick neck and enormous shoulders making him look like an enraged bull. His lips had tightened to a thin line and the grey eyes gleamed with anger and anticipation.

He’s been waiting for this, holding off until the right time. Oh fuck...

“They knew.” Owen was towering over him now, his red face a few inches from Don’s. His breath was hot and sour from the wine. “It’s was obvious they weren’t fresh mushrooms. They were too polite to say anything but they damn well knew.”

“Owen...” Don felt his face twist into a nervous smile, “The food was... it was all great, I’m sure no one could tell...and even if they could they probably didn’t care...”

“Didn’t care?” Owen snarled into his face, “Of course they did. Dianne almost choked on the fucking things, didn’t you see?”

“She didn’t... It wasn’t because of that...”

“They’ll all be laughing at me at work tomorrow. Cheapskate Owen Keller, earns two hundred grand a year and can’t even stretch to fresh fucking mushrooms!”

“So tell them the truth... that it was my fault, I got the wrong thing.”

Owen’s face went from rage to calm in the space of a couple of seconds. His voice became low and measured, and he spoke to Don as if to a child. “Ah, you see, Don, that’s no good either. See, I’ve spent years telling them about you; this tough, heroic cop, outstanding career, really going places. I watch them eat themselves up with jealously because they can’t have you and I can. What would they say if they knew that my fantastic boyfriend was actually so fucking stupid that he couldn’t even pick up a few basic ingredients without screwing it up?”

“It wasn’t like that,” Don protested, hating himself for the desperation that he could hear in his own voice. “I told you, they didn’t have any...”

There was a dull thump, and Don felt the breath leave his body as Owen drove an enormous fist into his stomach. His knees buckled and he dropped to the floor, gasping. For a moment his panic was absolute; he couldn’t breathe! The air seemed to stick in his throat every time he tried to inhale. He was beginning to feel dizzy from the lack of oxygen when, suddenly, his lungs remembered how to function and he took a sharp, shuddering breath, and another, and was swamped with a deep, overwhelming pain. He curled into a ball on the kitchen tiles, his breath coming in rapid, sobbing gasps. Owen’s extravagant three course dinner threatened to come back up and he swallowed hard to keep himself from throwing up.

Something hit him, something hard and lumpy. Owen had thrown the garbage bag at him. The bag split, showering Don in uneaten food and cigarette butts. One of the empty bottles smashed on the floor next to him, and shards of broken glass tore through the sleeve of his shirt and cut deep into his arm.

Don curled up even tighter, trying to make himself as small a target as possible, and waited for the next blow. It didn’t come. His breathing gradually slowed to a calmer rate, but he made no move to get up. Experience had taught him that Owen usually cooled off quicker if he stayed down.

He could hear heavy footsteps approaching him. He kept his eyes shut but he could feel Owen standing over him.

No more, please, no more.

There was a long, tense silence, then fingers plucking at his torn sleeve. “That shirt’s ruined.” Owen’s voice was accusing. There was another long pause, and then Don heard the footsteps moving away again. “Get this mess cleaned up.”

Don didn’t move. He lay curled up on his side, waiting for the trembling to subside and trying to keep the tears that stung the back of his eyes from spilling over. It wasn’t until he heard the TV switch on in the next room that he felt safe enough to try to sit up. He brushed as much of the cigarette ash and food scraps off of himself as he could, then shuffled backwards until his back met a cupboard door and sat with his arms wrapped around himself.

He felt sick. The pain deep in his abdomen felt as if something was eating him from the inside out. Noticing the blood for the first time, he carefully rolled up his sleeve and pulled a large shard of glass out of his forearm.

_He’s right, you know,_ a little voice in the back of his head told him, _you really are stupid._

Great, he thought, even my own mind is against me.

_You could have saved yourself all this,_ the voice persisted. _You could have just gone to another store and gotten what he wanted. That body wasn’t exactly going anywhere. Although, come to think of it, you’re probably too dumb to think up a good excuse for being late._

Shut up, please just shut up.

_You’re so fucking stupid_ (not for the first time Don thought how much that voice sounded like his Dad) _you actually stay with a guy who uses you as his own personal punching bag. Big tough cop who allows himself to be treated like garbage. Still, it makes sense really. This is the best you can do, isn’t it? After all, who else would have you?_

It was true. All of it. How could he hope for anything better than this? He was no good for anything - or anyone - else. Even Danny, his best friend, who he had loved beyond anything else, and who he could no longer look in the eye because he felt so ashamed of the pathetic wimp he had become – even Danny hadn’t wanted him.

Don drew his legs up to his chest, rested his forehead on his knees, and began to rock gently back and forth.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a short chapter, sorry.   
> Throughout this fic there will be occasional talk of business and legal proceedings. I am completely bullshitting my way through these as I know nothing about them (I try to look up as much as possible but I don’t understand most of it). If anyone spots any glaring mistakes please let me know so that I can correct them.  
> I also play around with a lot of the forensic stuff, in this respect I'm probably taking as many liberties as the show does (they always seem to get DNA results back in two hours, the reality is more like two weeks. Seriously, my brother studied forensics, his lecturers used to use CSI as an example of how the process DOESN'T work. Still love it though).

February 4th

 

Mac looked down at the corpse on the stainless steel mortuary table. The level of decomposition coupled with the extensive injuries, now more clearly visible since the body had been cleaned up, made it barely recognisable as a human being.

“C-O-D is blunt force trauma to the head and face. It’s not possible to tell which was the fatal injury because, as you can see, the entire skull is pretty beat up.”

That was an understatement, Mac thought. The vic’s head looked pulverised, deep fractures criss-crossed the skull while the nose, cheekbones, jaw and eye sockets had been all but destroyed. “Could the injuries have been caused by the brick wall collapsing on him?”

Sid adjusted his glasses and peered more closely at the body. “At first glance that would seem to be the most obvious cause, but if you look closely you’ll see that all of the damage is confined to the head. If this man had been crushed under a falling wall you would expect to see broken bones, shattered ribs. Aside from the decomp the torso is remarkably free of injuries.”

“So if he wasn’t crushed to death, what could have killed him?”

“Well, I did notice this.” Sid gently lifted one of the skeletal arms. “The only other damage to the body is here. See, the bones in the hand are broken and the wrist is fractured right here. The other hand is the same. Now, the only cause I can think of for these injuries is if the victim’s hands were in front of his face when he received one of the blows to his head.” Sid held his own hands up to his face, palms forward.

Mac nodded slowly. “Defensive wounds. The vic was trying to ward off the blows which killed him. This was no accident.” He looked down at the body again, his face grim. “Someone beat him to death and hid his body under the pile of rubble. If those two boys hadn’t quite literally stumbled on him who knows how much longer he might have been there?”

 

                                                               XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Danny stepped into the room to find Hawkes staring at a computer screen, a bored look on his face.

“Uh oh, it’s never a good sign when you look pissed off.”

Hawkes sighed. “I got nothing. Literally nothing. Our vic’s DNA isn’t in CODIS and the body’s too decayed to get any prints. Even the clothing’s too far gone to give us very much.”

“What about dental records, facial recreation?”

“Not possible. The bones in the face have been smashed to pieces and most of the teeth are either broken or missing. All we know about our John Doe is that he’s a white male, about five feet ten.”

“Like half the missing people in the city.” Danny whistled softly. “Looks like you got your work cut out for you here, Doc.“

“Looks that way. So, what are you up to?”

“Mac’s got me goin’ over a couple of cold cases.”

“Well, unless we have a breakthrough you might find this one added to your list of cold cases.”

“Somethin’ll turn up, it usually does. I’m goin’ to get coffee, you want anything?”

“Actually, I think I’ll come with you.” Hawkes stood up. “It’s not as if I’m rushed off my feet here.”

Danny stepped backwards out of the doorway and bumped into Don in the corridor. Did he imagine it, or did the tall man flinch at the unexpected contact? “Hey, sorry bud, should’a looked where I was goin’.”

“S’no problem.”

Don stepped sideways to go around Danny but Hawkes called out to him before he could walk away. “Hey, Flack, you got any leads on our vic? I’m drawing nothing but blanks here.”

“Uh... no, nothin’ so far. Mac wants me to go door to door again, double check the neighbours’ statements. Although, Sid thinks the vic’s been dead for almost a year, I doubt any of ‘em will remember that far back.”

“Well, good luck with that.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

Don started to walk away. Normally Danny would have let him go, he had grown used to seeing his old friend heading out of the door with barely a word, but this time something made him open his mouth.

“Hey Don, how’d the dinner party go last night?“

Don’s shoulders seemed to stiffen momentarily, and he gave a half-glance over his shoulder, not looking directly at Danny. “It was, uh... good. It was good. Thanks.”

Danny watched, frowning, as Don left as fast as he could without actually running.

“He seems kinda jumpy today.” So Hawkes had noticed too.

“He was probably up late last night, cleaning up after dinner. Maybe he’s tired.” Even as he spoke, Danny wondered who he was trying to convince.

 

                                                          XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Don sagged as the last man exited the locker room. He had spent the last ten minutes pretending to be interested in the usual gossip, a cheerful smile plastered across his face, and all the while hoping that none of them would notice that he had not even removed his jacket. It had left him feeling drained. A few of the guys had asked if he wanted to join them for a beer or two later, an invitation he had declined even though drinking himself into oblivion seemed a very attractive prospect. It wasn’t worth the hell he’d face when he got home.

Sure that he was finally alone, Don gingerly took off his jacket and shirt. The bandage on his left forearm was stained red, he had to change it before the blood seeped through onto his sleeve. He didn’t think Owen would forgive him if he ruined another shirt.

The wound under the bandage was open and raw, but it looked clean, at least. That was good, hopefully it would heal up by itself without getting infected and he wouldn’t have to think up a convincing story to tell a doctor. He re-bandaged his arm and slipped his shirt back on. His hand brushed against his belly as he went to do up the buttons, making him wince. His stomach was bruised from his ribs to his groin. The gnawing ball of pain inside refused to go away and the thought of eating anything made him feel physically sick.

How had he come to this? How had he gone so quickly from the gregarious, wisecracking, take-no-shit cop to the wreck he had become? If he sunk any lower he’d have to look up to tie his shoes.

It had never been like this with Danny. They’d argued, sure, mostly over little things like whose turn it was to pay the pizza delivery guy or who was in charge of the remote. Then Danny’s glasses would slip down his nose, and Don would push them back up again with one finger, and they’d laugh and carry on as if nothing had happened. It had almost come out earlier, when Danny had bumped into him in the corridor. How’d the dinner party go? he’d asked, and for one desperate moment Don had felt an overwhelming urge to cry out, ‘He hurt me, Danny!’

And then... what? Danny would have comforted him? Told him that it was okay, that he didn’t have to go back to the man who terrified him so much? That he would make it all better? Who was he kidding? He could practically see the look of disgust on Danny’s face, the contempt in his eyes, he could hear his voice, harsh and mocking, saying ‘Seriously? You let him beat you up while you just sit there and take it? When did you get so fuckin’ weak, Don? Do you secretly enjoy it? Yeah, I bet it turns you on when he smacks you around. You’d have done somethin’ about it by now if it didn’t.’

_He’d despise you,_ the little voice told him from the back of his mind. _Who wouldn’t? Look at you, you’re pathetic. A real man would laugh his ass off at you if he saw you like this._

Don shut his eyes, trying to concentrate on shutting the voice out. It was getting harder and harder to do.

You’re not getting anything done like this, he told himself firmly. You may be the world’s sorriest excuse for a human being, but you’ve still got a job to do. No one else is gonna go knocking on all those neighbours’ doors. Even if you can’t help yourself, you can still do something for that poor bastard lying in the morgue.

Don pulled on his jacket and checked that the bulk of the bandage was not visible beneath the sleeve. Time to slap a smile on his face and get back to work.

 

                                                        XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

“Hey, Mac.”

Mac looked up from his paperwork to see Hawkes in his office doorway. ”Hi, Sheldon, how’s it going?”

“Do you want the good news or the bad news?”

Mac sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “I could do with some good news.”

“I’ve identified the trace we found on our vic. Those grey particles are tiny flecks of skin, and the DNA doesn’t match our John Doe. Considering the manner of death, I’d say there’s a pretty good chance they’re from our killer.”

“And do we have an I.D?”

“That’s the bad news. Nothing in CODIS. Neither the vic nor our potential suspect are in the system.”

“Not what I wanted to hear.”

“Sorry, Mac.”

Mac smiled wearily. “It’s okay, you gave it your best shot. Thanks, Sheldon.”

Bored, and deciding to go in search of coffee, Mac found Jo walking along the corridor. “Hey, any leads on that nightclub fire yet?”

“We’re getting there. I had Adam look at the cell phone footage we got from the witnesses. I think the DJ’s a favourite of his, I found him dancing around the lab. Jumped out of his skin when he saw me watching, of course, poor guy.” Jo gave him a wicked smile. “Anything on your John Doe?”

Mac shook his head. “Nothing to go on at all. Unless Flack gets any new information from the people living near the empty building we could be sitting on this one for quite a while.”

Jo put a comforting hand on his arm. “Don’t beat yourself up. If there was anything to find you would have found it. Your murderer obviously covered their tracks very well.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately it means that there’s a family out there somewhere wondering what happened to their loved one, and we don’t even know who they are.”

 

                                                          XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Don stifled a yawn as he opened the door. He felt exhausted. Taking statements from potential witnesses was hardly strenuous work, but three hours knocking on doors asking the same questions over and over again was enough to wear anyone out. It had been a fruitless task anyway. It was like those three monkeys; no one saw anything, no one heard anything, no one had anything to say.

The most he had gotten was from a sweet old lady in the building opposite. “It was probably some poor vagrant,” she had told him. “Sometimes they take shelter in there when the weather gets bad. I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them drank himself to death in there.“ Don thought she might faint when he told her that the man was a murder victim. She, like the others, had seen nothing.

He could hear music playing in the dining room, some piano concerto, slow and mournful. He found the table set for dinner, candles burning and everything. Hearing footsteps behind him he turned to see Owen striding into the room, an open bottle of red wine in his hand.

The big man's face lit up when he saw Don. “Hey, I’m so glad you’re home. I’ve drawn you a bath. You go soak away all that tension you’ve been carrying around lately and I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.” He planted an affectionate kiss on Don’s forehead.

“Special occasion?” Don asked as Owen put the bottle down on the table.

“Just my way of apologising for our little disagreement last night.” Owen turned back to him with a beatific smile on his face. “I shouldn’t have been mad at you, it was only a few mushrooms, after all. You were right, no one noticed the difference. They were all raving about the meal at work today, said it was the best thing they had ever eaten.” He wrapped his arms around Don, pulling him close. “Can you forgive my little hissy fit?”

My gut feels like there’s a ball of molten lead inside it and I’ve re-bandaged my arm twice today, Don thought, but what came out of his mouth was, “Yeah... I guess so.”

“Good.” Owen hugged him tightly, then became brisk. “Go on, you go take that bath, dinner’ll be about a half hour.”

Don stripped off and dumped his clothes in the laundry hamper in the bathroom. This was the one thing about Owen’s apartment that he really liked, the huge claw-footed bathtub that was big enough for him to lie in at full length, no mean feat for a guy over six feet tall. He could find nothing waterproof to cover the bandage so he took if off (it wasn’t as badly stained as the one this morning had been, it looked like the bleeding had stopped) and slid into the tub. The hot water stung his arm but the pain in his stomach seemed to lessen slightly. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

The water surrounded him like a warm blanket, and after the noise and chaos of the precinct and the shrill complaints of John Doe’s neighbours about police harassment, the white silence of the bathroom was bliss. He felt his mind slipping slowly down into sleep, and welcomed the temporary oblivion that it promised. He was floating, weightless, free...

There was a sudden pressure on his shoulders, pushing him down under the water. He cried out and hot liquid flooded into his lungs. It was Owen, standing over him, his face distorted by the rippling water, Owen’s huge hands holding him down, drowning him...

Don’s eyes snapped open and he sat up fast enough to splash water over the edge of the tub and onto the floor. His chest heaved as if his lungs really were full of water as he fought down the panic that threatened to rise up and engulf him.

A dream. It was a fucking dream. He was alone in the bathroom, no one was trying to drown him. Don drew his knees up to his chest, at least as far as his bruised abdomen would allow, and waited for his heartbeat to slow.

The door opened and Owen’s concerned face appeared. “You okay, baby? I thought I heard a noise.” He looked down at the water on the floor, then back up at Don.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I just fell asleep for a moment, think I woke up too quickly. I’m sorry, I’ll clean it up.”

He moved to get out of the tub, but Owen put a hand on his shoulder. “Oh no you don’t. You’re staying right there, I’ll clean up.” Owen took a towel out of the laundry hamper and began to mop up the water.

“I’m sorry,” Don repeated, not knowing what else to say. There was no way he could tell Owen about the dream.

“For what?” Owen wrung the towel out in the sink and dropped it back into the hamper. “A little water isn’t going to ruin the floor. Accidents happen.” He crouched by the tub, his face a picture of concern. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re not sick, are you?”

“I’m fine. Just a little tired, I guess. It’s been a long day with not much to show for it.”

“Poor guy.”

Owen took the shampoo bottle down from a shelf and worked the thick suds into Don’s hair. The hands that only the night before had inflicted so much pain were so gentle, the fingers massaged his scalp so carefully, that Don closed his eyes again, totally relaxed. He heard Owen chuckle, “Hey, don’t fall asleep on me again.”

Owen rinsed the suds out of Don’s hair, then had him stand while he slid the soap across his body, making sure that no part was missed. He made no mention of the cut on Don’s forearm, or the huge bruise on his stomach, it was as if they weren’t there. The fingers seemed to linger on the tangled knot of scars on his chest, a legacy of the bomb that had nearly killed him, and Don tensed up, suddenly feeling rather self-conscious.

Owen washed away the soap, helped Don out of the tub and handed him a large, fluffy towel. “Here you go. Get dressed and come sit down for dinner. It’s Italian, your favourite, right?”

Don nodded, not trusting himself to speak. When Owen said Italian it usually meant something you’d find in some high-end restaurant in Rome. Don’s idea of Italian food mainly involved pizza. Or lasagne. Danny made a mean lasagne.

Stop it, he told himself firmly.

Once he was dressed, Don went to the dining room and sat down at the table. He’d been right about the food, Owen had done something with beef and dried fruit. Don had no idea what it was, but having eaten nothing all day, and with the pain in his belly finally beginning to subside, he thought it looked pretty good.

“I shouldn’t have too much, I gotta start early again tomorrow,” he said as Owen filled his glass from the expensive-looking bottle of red wine.

“One won’t hurt,” Owen replied, putting the bottle down and starting on his own dinner. “So, how was work? It doesn’t sound like you had a great day.”

“Not really. We’ve got a case, but no evidence and nothing to go on. Mac’s not happy about it.” He was pretty sure he had imagined the tic in Owen’s cheek at the mention of his boss’s name. “It’s just been a long, boring day.”

“I can’t imagine how frustrating it must be when you can’t move forward with a case.” Owen smiled sympathetically. “Still, you’re here now, you can forget about it. For tonight at least.”

After desert (tiramisu) Owen lit a cigarette and insisted that Don go relax while he cleared the dishes. Don threw himself down onto the cream leather of the couch and switched on the TV. He could find nothing of interest, and was still channel-surfing when Owen came in. He took the remote from Don as he sat down and within seconds had found an old black and white movie that he said was a favourite of his. He put an arm around Don and pulled him in to lean against his chest, his hand stroking Don's hip. He kissed the top of Don’s head, then his temple, moving lower until finally he turned Don’s head and slid his tongue into his mouth. Owen tasted mostly of cigarettes, with the lingering alcoholic taste of the tiramisu beneath it. While Don did not find the taste pleasant he melted into the kiss, loving that Owen was not mad at him any more.

They kissed for a long time, Owen wrapping his arms around Don, enveloping him in a protective embrace. It felt great, Don felt that he could quite happily stay like this for the rest of the night. He felt Owen’s hand slide up under his shirt, over the bruise and the scars, and he froze. He hated when Owen touched the scars.

“Relax, baby,” Owen whispered in his ear. “It’s okay, I’m gonna make you feel all better.”

Don tried to relax, but it wasn’t easy. He wished he could keep the scars covered, but Owen had already pulled off his shirt and was now tugging his slacks and boxers down his thighs. The big hands ran all over his body; his neck, his nipples, his hips. It was exhilarating, and frightening. Every time he felt himself loosening up he saw again the image of Owen’s rippling face, felt his hands on his shoulders holding him under...

He felt a thick finger slip into the cleft of his ass, probing at him, looking for entry. It was already slick with something, Owen must have had the lube in his pocket. The finger pressed painfully into him and Don drew a sharp breath. The digit continued it’s probing for a minute or two, then withdrew.

Owen pulled away, a look of confusion on his face. “Why so tense, baby? Is something wrong?”

Don tried to think of an answer, but he couldn’t come up with anything fast enough. Owen lowered his eyes and shifted to the other end of the couch. “It’s okay, I understand. You’re still upset with me. I don’t blame you, I’d be mad if I was in your place. I... I just wanted everything to be perfect, for you. Those people from work, they’re all so shallow and superficial, I didn’t really care what they thought. I was just... trying to impress you, I guess, acting like a big shot in front of those people so you’d think I was this big, important guy. I mean, look at you, a young, good looking man, out there every day saving lives, half the people in the city would give their right arm to be with you. What chance does a glorified salesman like me have with someone like you?”

Don stared at him. “What are you talking about? You don’t need to impress me. You’re the one with the high flying job and the enormous paycheck. You got a goddamn business degree, I didn’t even get through college.” He paused, trying to process what Owen had said. “You really feel like that?”

There were tears running down Owen’s face as he turned to face him. “Hard to believe, right? Ask anyone who knows me and they’d say I’m the man who has everything, but without you I have nothing, Don, nothing to live for. My whole life is geared towards making you happy. But after I was so mean to you last night... I’d understand if you wanted to leave.”

For a moment Don couldn’t speak. He could go, just pick up his wallet and phone and leave.

And yet... Owen really went to all that effort just for him? All the fancy dinner parties, the expensive gifts, all just to impress him? And here he’d been thinking that Owen hated him.

The huge man on the couch next to him looked distraught. Without you I have nothing to live for. What did that mean?

“I’m not going anywhere,” he heard himself saying. “It’s okay, it was just a stupid misunderstanding, that’s all.”

“You mean it?” Owen’s tearstained face was suddenly hopeful. “I really am sorry. I love you so much, Don. I just wonder sometimes... if you can really love me as much as I love you.”

Don reached over and took his hand. “Of course I do. We’ve been together for four years, you should know that by now.”

Owen leaned across and kissed him again, deeply. It seemed to go on forever. He finally broke contact and smiled, one large hand caressing the back of Don’s neck. “It’ll never happen again, baby, I promise.”

He gently pushed Don back down on the couch. He moved slowly, carefully, every touch setting off glorious sparks all through the younger man’s body. Don felt almost euphoric. Owen loved him. He was sorry and he loved him.

_You really are stupid, aren’t you?_

Shut up!

_How many times has he promised that it won’t happen again? He feeds you that same crap every time and you just lap it up. You must really be desperate. Still, it’s understandable. After all, it’s not as if anyone else would treat you any better. You don’t deserve any better._

I’m not listening. I feel good right now, and you’re not gonna spoil it.

_No, I don’t have to. He’ll do that himself sooner or later. Probably sooner. And you’ll put up with it because that’s all you’re good for._

Don felt Owen’s hand wrap itself around his cock, and the voice tuned out. The finger returned, slipping gently inside him, the twin sensations electrifying and melting him at the same time. The hurt disappeared, all of it, leaving nothing but pleasure, and when he felt Owen take him into his mouth it was enough to push him over the edge, his back arching as his climax overtook him.

Owen moved upwards, covering Don’s body with his own. The finger slid out and was replaced by something far larger, and he moaned with longing. As the slow, leisurely thrusting of Owen’s hips sent him back into his happy delirium, he felt the warm brush of the other man’s lips against his ear, whispering, “It’s okay, baby, we’re going to be okay.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains spoilers for Shakespeare's Hamlet, of all things.

April 8th

 

Danny yawned and stretched out in the bed he shared with Mac. At least, he did when Mac was there. Right now he had the bed all to himself, the older CSI was working the early shift. He himself didn’t have to start until lunchtime, which meant that he could afford to lounge around in bed a little while longer.

The gloom and chill of winter was giving way to the warmer air of spring, and the bright sunlight streaming through the bedroom window gave him a warm, contented feeling. He could quite happily stay here all day, basking in his own ray of sunshine. The only thing that could possibly make it better would be if Mac was there to share it with him. He’d have to wait until tonight for that.

He must have fallen asleep again. It was almost midday by the time he resurfaced, his belly telling him that it was lunchtime. Feeling too lazy to fix himself something to eat, he showered and dressed, then made his way to Joe’s Diner, a couple of blocks from the precinct. Walking through the door he spotted a familiar figure at the counter and went over.

“Hey Don, how’s it goin’?”

The tall man glanced quickly in his direction before facing front again. “Hey Danny.”

Danny leaned on the counter next to him. “You on your lunch break?”

“Yup. You?”

“I gotta start my shift in an hour. Thought I’d stop in for a BLT before work.”  

“Cool.” Don smiled at the pretty waitress who brought out his coffee and bagel. “Thanks. And could I get a BLT for my friend here? Don’t worry, I got it,” he insisted as Danny opened his mouth to protest. Danny couldn’t help noticing the curious look the waitress gave Don before she disappeared in back.

Don took a sip of his coffee. “Man, I needed this. It’s only 12.30 and it’s been a long day already.” His voice sounded cheerful enough, but Danny noticed that the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. The one eye he could see anyway. Why wouldn’t Don look at him?

The waitress returned with his BLT. Don looked down to count out the change, turning his head slightly towards Danny as he did so.

“Don, what’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“On your face.” He put a hand on Don’s shoulder and pulled him round to face him. There was a bruise the size of a baseball on Don’s cheek, just below his left eye. Danny winced at the sight of it. “How the hell did you get that?”

“Oh, that? Took down a guy tryin to rob a bodega yesterday, he threw a punch before I could cuff him.”

Danny pursed his lips in sympathy. “Looks painful.”

“Hey, you think this is bad, you should see the other guy.” Don grinned, but again Danny noticed that his eyes did not crease up at the corners as they used to do when he smiled. Don pushed his sandwich towards him. “So are you gonna eat this or do I get double helpings today?”

Danny let out a snort of laughter. One Sunday evening, years ago, when they had had nothing to do, Danny had suggested that they go to bed early. They had had sex twice that evening; double helpings, Don had said afterwards with a smirk.

And now he was thinking bad thoughts. Damn! Danny sank his teeth into his BLT, trying to get images of a naked Don out of his head. Luckily the taller man was wolfing down his bagel like it was the first decent meal he’d had all week, and didn’t notice how red his face had become.

There was a sudden, insistent bleeping sound, and both men instinctively put their hands in their pockets.

It turned out to be Don’s phone that had rung. “Phrack,” he answered with his mouth full. Danny sniggered. Don swallowed and listened. “Uh-huh... where to? Ok... Ok, I’m on my way.” He put the phone back in his pocket. “Gotta go, someone just called in a double homicide.”

“I’ll probably see you there. Thanks for the sandwich,” Danny called, as Don shoved the last of his bagel into his mouth and left.

 

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Danny whistled softly. He could pull triple shifts for the rest of his life and still never be able to afford a place like this. The apartment, a penthouse overlooking Central Park, was enormous, all white walls and black wood, somehow managing to be lavish and minimal at the same time. There was artwork on the walls that was probably worth more than the entire building. There was even a goddamn grand piano in one corner.

The only thing that spoilt the general air of opulence were the two bodies lying on the floor.

First things first—Danny picked up his camera and began photographing the crime scene. He’d been right about seeing Don there. He’d barely gotten into the lab before Mac had turned him around and hustled him out of the door to process the same crime scene that the detective had been called to half an hour before.

“The bathroom in this place is bigger than my old apartment,” Don had remarked when the CSIs arrived.

“You’re telling me,” Mac replied. He looked quizzically at Don and pointed at his own face.

“Bodega robbery. The guy had a mean right hook.”

Mac nodded, accepting the explanation. “So who’s the lucky owner of this palace?”

Don pointed to the dead man, who lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling with an expression of surprise on his face. The part of his face not obscured by the bullet hole, at least. “He is. Anthony Roberts, age fifty two, property tycoon.”

“ _The_ Anthony Roberts? He’s like, a multimillionaire, isn’t he?” Danny asked.

Don gestured around the apartment. “Obviously.”

“Anthony Roberts owns several residential buildings in Manhatten, as well as property in in Florida and California,” Mac supplied. “He’s been on the list of New York’s hundred richest men for the last six years.” He gestured at the second corpse. “And vic number two?”

“His daughter, Lizette Roberts. She was an up-and-coming fashion designer, really going places, apparently.”

Danny looked down at the young woman. She lay, like her father, on her back, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. There was very little blood on her body, the large knife that had been jammed into her chest had probably stemmed the flow. In her right hand she held a gun. “I’d say it’s pretty good odds that’s the gun that killed Mr Roberts.”

Danny’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of scuffling coming from the doorway, and a distraught voice screaming, “Lizzie? Lizzie! Oh God, what the fuck..?”

The three cops turned to see a young man struggling to get past the uniformed officer in the doorway. “Let me go!” he was yelling, “I have to help her, let met go!”

Taking charge as usual, Mac stepped forward and put his hands on the man’s shoulders. “Hey, take it easy, calm down. What’s your name?”

“Uh... Jared... Jared Morris.” He looked over Mac’s shoulder at the fallen bodies. “Is she dead? Oh fuck... I should have gotten here sooner...”

“Slow down. What do you mean you should have gotten here sooner?”

“She called me.” The man ran a shaking hand through his blond hair, his face white with shock. “She said that... she’d had an argument with her dad, and that he was going crazy. She said he was scaring her. And then I heard Mr Roberts yelling, and Lizzie screaming... and then there was this loud bang... like a gunshot... and then it all went quiet. I called 911 and then came straight here. There was a delay on the subway... if I’d just taken a cab or something...”

“It’s Ok,” Mac reassured him, “You did everything you could. Now, I know you’re a little shaken up right now, but I need to ask you a few questions, Ok? How did you know Lizette Roberts?”

“She... she’s a friend. We went to college together, and she helped me find an apartment when I moved to New York.”

“Do you know of anyone who would want to hurt her? Ex-boyfriends, anyone like that?”

“Uh... no... no, she didn’t have a boyfriend. Everyone loves Lizzie, she’s... she was such a nice person.”

“Did you know Mr Roberts well?”

“A little. He seemed like a nice guy, kinda short tempered sometimes, but I can’t believe he’d do this to Lizzie.”

“Hey, Mac.” Don, who had been looking around the apartment, held up a framed photograph.

Mac looked at the picture. A smiling Lizette Roberts, wearing a blue bikini and with her dark hair tied back in a ponytail, sat on a sandy beach, her arms around a beautiful little girl. The child looked to be about two years old. She wore a pink swimsuit with seashells on it, and had a radiant smile on her face.

“Mr Morris?” Mac asked, “Does Lizette have a daughter?”

Morris blinked. “Uh... had. Eloise died shortly before her third birthday. She had a heart condition. Wouldn’t have known it to look at her—such a happy kid—but her heart was very weak, and one day it just gave out.”

“Where is the child’s father?”

“Lizzie got pregnant at college, a one night stand. I think she said his name was Matthew... something or other. I can’t remember.”

“So he’s not on the scene at the moment?”

“No. Lizzie said that he wanted her to have an abortion, but she decided to keep Eloise. He’s never had anything to do with them, as far as I know.”

“Ok. Thank you for your help, Mr Morris. If you’d wait outside, an officer will take your statement.” The young man looked close to tears, and Mac put a hand on his arm. “Don’t blame yourself for this. You did everything you could to help Lizette.”

Jared Morris trailed out of the apartment, and Don followed, going to find out if the downstairs neighbours had heard anything. 

“Whaddya think, Mac?” Danny asked. “Roberts and his daughter had an argument and ended up killing each other?”

“It certainly looks that way. We’ll know more once we’ve processed the scene and Sid’s performed the autopsies, but for now I’d say this one looks pretty straightforward.”

“Aw, don’t say that, you’ll jinx it!”

 

                                                              XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

“I jinxed it, didn’t I?”

Sid looked up at Mac. “What?”

“Nothing. So what was it you wanted to show me?“

Sid indicated the two steel gurneys where Anthony and Lizette Roberts lay side by side. “Well, the cause of death in each case is obvious, both the gunshot and stab wounds would have been almost instantly fatal. You said the early indication was that Mr Roberts and his daughter killed each other, right?”

“A witness received a phone call that would seem to corroborate that.”

“So I heard. But when I examined the bodies I noticed this.” Sid handed two latex gloves to Mac, then took hold of the dead man’s wrist. “Here, raise the arm.”

Mac snapped on the gloves and put his hands underneath Roberts’s arm, pushing gently upwards. He raised the arm up to a right angle with the body, feeling the stiffness in the shoulder joint. “Onset of rigor mortis. That makes sense, evidence from our witness puts time of death at a little over four hours ago. In normal conditions rigor takes between two and six hours to set in.”

“That’s right. Now look at this.”

Sid turned to the body of Lizette Roberts, indicating that Mac should try the same test. Mac took hold of the left arm. It wouldn’t move. He tried again, but the limb was frozen in place. “She’s in full rigor. Lizette and her father could not have died at the same time.”

“Exactly. Liver temperature puts Mr Roberts’s time of death at between four and six hours ago. Lizette’s is estimated at eight to ten hours.”

“So Jared Morris lied about getting a phone call from Lizette four hours ago. Which means he goes from being a witness to being a suspect.”

 

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Mac stepped out of the elevator to see Don walking up the corridor.

“Hey, Mac, I was just coming to find you.”

“Don,” Mac greeted the detective. “What’ve you got?”

“Well, according to everyone I spoke to, Anthony Roberts was a great guy. Apart from being envious of his money, no one had a bad word to say about him. He gave to various charities, funded a business scholarship—you name a good deed, this guy’s done it.”

“He sounds too good to be true.”

"That’s what I thought. Apparently there’s an ex-wife floating around somewhere, no one seems to know why Mr Perfect might have gotten a divorce though.”

“The ex is Lizette’s mother?”

“No, Mr Roberts’s first wife, Cecilia, died fifteen years ago. Heart condition, the same thing that killed the granddaughter, Eloise. It’s hereditary, passed down from parent to child, although it often skips a generation. I also found out that Roberts has another child.”

“He does?”

“Yep, a son, Jonah. Roberts never really talked about him, he’s kinda the black sheep of the family; fell in with a bad crowd, dropped out of school, you know the deal. Kid left home when he was seventeen, hasn’t been seen since. We’re trying to track him and the ex-wife down.”

“Great, keep on it. Before that, I want you to bring Jared Morris in.”

“The guy who showed up at Roberts’s apartment? Why?”

“Lizette Roberts died at least eight hours ago, which means that either Jared lied about getting a phone call from her four hours ago, or Lizette somehow called him from beyond the grave.”

“He gave us his address, I’ll go there now.”

“Thanks, Don. In the meantime, I’m going to get a subpoena for Lizette’s phone records. I’ll try to get a look at Mr Roberts’s will too, find out who might benefit from his death. He was a rich man, greed is a powerful motivator.”

“I’d be tempted to kill for an apartment like that.” Don grinned, the bruise on his face making the smile rather lopsided.

Mac’s fingers twitched—he almost reached up to touch the mark on Don’s cheek, although he wasn’t sure why. Instead he asked, “You have had that checked out, haven’t you?“

Don’s grin widened, as if to prove that it didn’t hurt. “Of course. There’s no damage, the guy barely grazed me. It’s fine, Mac, honest.”

 

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“What’re ya thinkin’?”

Mac looked up into Danny’s eyes and smiled. “I’m thinking I wish this office had solid walls instead of glass. You and the top of my desk are looking mighty inviting right now.”

Danny felt his cock twitch. He closed his eyes and groaned. “Aaah, come on Mac, no fair, you know I’ve always wanted to do it on your desk.”

“Yeah, and we’d have half the lab techs watching with their noses pressed against the glass. What if Jo caught us? She’d probably take pictures for blackmail purposes.”

“Or Adam? The guy’s jittery enough around you as it is, seeing us doin’ the nasty in the office would probably give him a coronary or somethin’.”

Mac chuckled. “Well, we’re almost done here. Flack’s questioning Jared Morris, he’s given us his phone and a DNA sample, so hopefully we’ll have some answers by tomorrow. Think you can wait till we get home?”

“Aww, Ok. But later on we get to do it on the dining table and pretend it’s your desk, right?”

 

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Don didn’t need to be able to hear Owen’s footsteps; he could feel the man’s presence behind him as surely as if he had eyes in the back of his head. Two arms, solid and huge from years of lifting weights in the gym, snaked around his waist. The enormous, muscular torso pressed against his back. Don looked straight ahead and concentrated on scrubbing the remains of tonight’s scrambled egg off of the frying pan.

“You look so hot tonight,” the deep voice purred into his ear. “This shirt shows off that body perfectly.” The thick fingers ran over his chest, caressing the fabric. Don said nothing. He hated that shirt. It was a dark purple colour, made of some expensive, satiny material that had a weird sheen to it, and always seemed to be cold no matter how long he wore it. It had earned him weeks of teasing at the precinct. He longed for his old, comfortable t-shirts, but Owen had got rid of them once Don had moved in. “Only the best for my boy,” he had said proudly.

One large hand ran up his side, stroking his shoulder, the nape of his neck, his throat, before moving up to his face. It pressed against his cheekbone, below his left eye, and Don flinched, turning his head away.

“What’s the matter, baby?“

He really had to ask? “It still hurts, Owen,” he said quietly.

“That? Come on, baby, I said I was sorry. Besides, you know how I get when other guys look at you like that. That guy in the restaurant last night got me a little riled up, that’s all.”

“ _That guy_ was the waiter. The only thing he was interested in was how I like my steak cooked.”

“He wasn’t looking at your face when he asked you, was he?”

“I can’t help how people look at me.”

“Didn’t exactly discourage him though, did you?”

Don kept quiet. He had merely smiled at the man who had taken their order, but there was no point explaining that to Owen. This was an argument he was not going to win.

“So...” The hand moved down again, and began undoing the top button of the hideous purple shirt. “What do you say you leave those dishes and you and I go have a little fun?”

Don closed his eyes. That really was the last thing he wanted to hear. “I’m tired, Owen. We had two armed robberies this morning and a double homicide this afternoon.”

“So let’s take your mind off of it. It’ll make you feel better.”

“I really don’t feel like...” His words were cut off as Owen spun him around and shoved his tongue down his throat.

It took all of Don’s will to stop himself recoiling from the kiss. He wanted to push Owen away, but he knew that would piss him off, and he really, really didn’t want that. He submitted to the unwelcome advance, hoping to get it over with quickly.

He could feel Owen tugging at the buttons on his shirt, pulling the garment roughly down over his shoulders. Don had barely wriggled his arms out of the sleeves when the big fingers found his nipple and squeezed, hard. Don’s knees buckled, not in a good way, and he braced his hands against the worktop to steady himself. The fingers twisted the nipple painfully, and Don let out an involuntary whimper.

“You like that, don’t you, baby?” he heard Owen growl. It could almost be believed that the big man had mistaken his whimper for one of pleasure. Almost.

The other hand moved down to undo his trousers, shoving them down over his hips along with his boxers. The hand slid round behind him and clamped onto his ass cheek. He felt Owen’s elegantly manicured nails digging into his flesh.

Make it quick, please, make it quick.

The hand that had been tormenting his nipple finally let go and joined the other one on his ass, lifting him effortlessly and carrying him to the dining room to dump him on the table. Don gritted his teeth as his rear met the cold, polished wood. Owen dragged his pants and boxers off and stood over him, watching him hungrily.

“I hope you’re...”

 

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“...ready for this?”

Danny grinned up at his lover. “Bring it on, boss,” he replied cheekily.

Mac, God bless him, had never quite gotten the hang of role play (he was far too direct for anything quite so frivolous, Danny had decided. The time he had asked Mac to screw him while wearing his old Marine uniform had gone down like a lead balloon) but he could occasionally be persuaded to do something a little more imaginative.

“You’d better hope nobody walks in on us. They’d probably think you were after a promotion or something. I’ll have everyone in the lab in here offering me sexual favours every time someone wants a raise.”

Danny laughed. The ‘office’ was, in fact, their apartment, the table that Danny currently sat naked upon doubling as Mac’s desk. He’d gotten his wish, kind of. “I definitely got a raise out of something,” he noted, eyeing Mac’s erection.

“You’re not the only one.” Mac leaned down and took his cock, which he had spent the last ten minutes teasing to it’s full hardness, into his mouth. Danny groaned loudly. Mac’s head came back up as he gave the younger man a stern look. “You keep making that noise and we’re definitely going to get found out.”

“Sorry, boss, I’ll be quiet.”

Mac gave him an evil smirk, and set about trying to make Danny make as much noise as possible. After two minutes of deepthroating Danny wouldn’t have been surprised if they really could hear him in the office. Dammit, it felt so good!

There was a loud clamouring outside the door; Mrs Hughes from upstairs clattering by with all four of her children, by the sound of it. Danny looked down at Mac and winked. “Maybe we ought to speed this up, before we get caught.” In truth, he didn’t think that he could wait any longer for Mac to fuck him.

Mac released his cock with an audible pop and looked across at the door, a feigned expression of concern on his face. “I think you’re right. Wait there.”

Leaving Danny sat on the table, Mac crossed to the kitchen, took something out of a cupboard and returned, a sly smile playing across his lips. He held up the item he had retrieved for Danny’s inspection.

Danny raised an amused eyebrow. “Great idea, babe, but really... _extra virgin_ olive oil?”

“I don’t appreciate my employees making fun of me, Danny. I can always go in dry if you prefer.”

“I’ll be good, boss.”

“Yes you will.” Mac indicated for Danny to draw his knees up and apart, then waved the green glass bottle at him. “You want this?”

“Yeah, I want it.”

Mac upended the bottle, and Danny felt the cool, viscous liquid coat the insides of his thighs and run down into his ass crack. He moaned. A finger slid between his buttocks and pushed gently into the tight little hole it found there, and Danny moaned again. Mac added another finger, carefully stretching the tight ring of muscle.

“C’mon, boss, is that all you got?” Danny challenged. He groaned with disappointment as the fingers slipped out of him.

“I’d cut the sass if I were you, Danny. I expect the people who work for me to be respectful at all times. Perhaps you need reminding of that?“

Danny’s heart pounded as he felt the head of Mac’s cock nudge at his hole. “Sorry, boss, I just... I want it so much...”

“There, that’s all I needed to hear.” Mac smiled, and thrust slowly into him.

Danny cried out in delight. He wrapped his legs around Mac’s waist, hands gripping the older man’s arms tightly. His back arched against the table top and he closed his eyes as Mac’s length slipped out of him, then in again. He could see it; Mac’s office, the charts, the computer, the filing cabinets, everything. Imagining his boss, his lover, screwing him on his desk, surrounded by all that glass, in full view of anyone who might happen to walk past—the thrill was incredible.

From somewhere far away he heard Mac’s voice saying, “Hey, Jo, you got those DNA results we’ve been waiting on?“

Danny’s heart jumped into his mouth, and his eyes flew open. He stared around wildly, before realising that he was not actually in the office, and that no one, either Jo or anyone else, was going to walk in on them. He was at home, on the table, with Mac’s cock buried deep inside him.

“Gotcha.”

“Fucking hell, Mac!”

Danny lay back on the table and started to laugh. Mac made a pained face. “What’sa matter?” Danny asked between giggles.

The older CSI grimaced. “All of your muscles contract when you laugh. _All_ of them.” This set Danny off again.

Mac smiled down at him. “God, you’re beautiful, Danny. You’re so...”

 

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“...beautiful.” Owen looked down critically at him. “You could almost be beautiful.” The older man’s fingers moved to his chest, tracing the rigid mess of the scars. “It’s such a shame about these.” Don wished that he would get a move on. Why did he keep talking? He knew the scars made him ugly, it wasn’t as if Owen ever let him forget it.

“Such a shame,” Owen repeated. He curled his lip in disgust. “I don’t like looking at them.” He pulled Don to his feet and spun him around. The huge hands gripped his shoulders and shoved him forward, bending him forcefully over the table, the unsightly scars now out of sight. “There, that’s better.” His buttocks were roughly parted, he heard Owen spit and a warm trickle ran between them.

Don felt oddly detached from the whole thing. It was a feeling he had become rather familiar with. He lay across the table, his cheek resting on the smooth wooden surface. There were several pictures on the walls of the dining room, and Don’s gaze settled on one of them. It was a print of John Everett Millais’s 'Ophelia'. He vaguely remembered the story; poor, demented Ophelia, driven mad by her father’s death and her unrequited love for Hamlet (who treated her like shit, by the way) falls into a river and, by now mentally exhausted, cannot summon up the will to save herself—she goes on singing as she drowns.

He had seen the original painting once, at a gallery in London. “Look at her face,” Owen had remarked, “So full of regret.”

Eyes fixed on the print now, Don had to disagree. Ophelia looked peaceful, he decided. Red hair spread in the water around her, a string of flowers in her hand, she could have been watching the sky, looking for shapes in the clouds. If she knew she was sinking, she was clearly not bothered by it.

That’s me, he thought. Singing as I drown.

The finger that was shoved unceremoniously inside him brought him sharply back to reality. Owen’s saliva did not serve well as lubrication, and Don had to stifle a little yelp of pain. Another finger pushed it’s way inside, and another, spreading apart and stretching him almost brutally wide. The fingers probed for a few seconds, then pulled out again. Owen’s preparation had been perfunctory at best, and Don wasn’t ready, but there was no point in protesting. His fingernails scraped against the table top as Owen entered him, and he bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. One big hand braced itself against his back, holding him down, while the other one slid underneath him to grasp his limp cock, stroking it none-too-gently in time with the thrusting of the older man’s hips.

“You’re enjoying that, aren’t you, baby.” It wasn’t a question. “Look how hard you’re getting for me already.”

Don cursed himself silently. He hadn’t meant to get turned on, but he couldn’t help it. He shut his eyes, powerless to stop his own traitorous body from responding to Owen’s ministrations. His breath quickened, his heart thumped against his ribs. He tried to focus on Ophelia again, but the huge dick stretched him so painfully that it was not possible. The hand on his cock was moving more frantically now, the broad hips rutting hard against his ass. He moaned, unable to keep quiet no matter how hard he tried. The man above him was grunting like an animal in heat.

A sudden, powerful thrust shoved him into the table, and Don felt a warm rush inside him. He groaned aloud as his own climax was forced from him, though it was with relief rather than pleasure. Thank God that was over.

“There, see? I said I’d make you feel better.” Owen pulled out of him and gave his ass a hearty slap. “I’m going to go take a shower. You’d better get back to those dishes, boy, they’re not going to wash themselves.”

Don heard the heavy footsteps receding, heading for the bathroom. Slowly, he pushed himself up until he stood with his hands leaning on the table top, panting. The strength seemed to have gone from his legs. Owen’s seed, warm and sticky, trickled down the back of his thigh. He felt sore and empty and used. He looked across at Ophelia, floating serenely with the current, waiting for it to take her down into the cool, welcoming darkness.

I know how you feel, he told her silently.

 

                                                           XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Danny was panting so hard that it took several seconds for him to draw enough breath to speak. “God, Mac, that was fucking awesome."

Mac, breathing just as hard, replied, “Maybe we should do it in the office more often.” He helped Danny down from the table and put his arms around him. “You’re all sweaty. You need a shower.”

“I will if you come with me. You can scrub my back for me.”

Mac raised a suspicious eyebrow. “You’re planning on turning this into round two, aren’t you?”

“You bet I am,” Danny grinned.

Mac pulled him close and kissed him deeply, before pulling back and smiling. “Give me ten minutes?”

“You got five.” Danny turned and darted towards the bathroom before Mac could protest.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay in updating, a small child climbed on me while I was typing and managed to delete an entire chapter. Little darling :/  
> Summer is here (at least, I assume it is, it’s hard to tell with all the rain we've had) and Real Life is about to take over for a few weeks, but will update again as soon as I can.

April 9th

 

 

“Lemme go! I never touched that fuckin’ broad, you got nothing on me!”

“Broad?” Jo asked. “That’s an interesting way to refer to the woman you claim you loved.”

The handcuffed man snarled at her. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth. You think you can fuck with my head? You don’t know shit about me.” Several heads turned towards them. “You bitches are all the fuckin’ same,” the man continued, as Jo escorted him through the precinct’s main office. “You all think you can play us. You sucker us in, take our money and then think you can screw around behind our backs. You ain’t worth shit. None of you are worth fuck all!”

“I’m wondering how you think that swearing at me is going to help your case.”

“You want me to be nice? Then fuck off and find me a real cop to talk to. Putting a badge on a bitch don’t make it a cop. I wanna talk to a man.”

Jo narrowed her eyes at him. “You wouldn’t know a real man if you saw one.”

“The fuck did you say to me? I’ll kill you, you bitch, I’ll fuckin’ kill you!”

He lunged at her. Jo saw his forehead aiming for her face and ducked, hand instinctively reaching for her gun, but before she could recover herself the man was suddenly hauled backwards as if attached to a bungee cord, and found himself looking up into the face of Don Flack. The guy was barely five foot six; it was a long way up to look.

“Man enough for you?” Don asked quietly. He shoved the man towards a uniformed officer who was standing nearby. “Get this scumbag out of my sight. Interview room two’s free.”

Jo watched with amusement as the man was dragged down the corridor, still screaming profanities. She walked over to Don, who had sunk back into his chair, bent down and put her arms around his shoulders. “My hero. Although, you know I could have taken him myself, right?”

“I know,” Don grunted. “I’m just not in the mood for assholes like him right now.”

Jo moved around the chair to lean on the edge of Don’s desk, facing him. “Don, are you Ok?”

“Sure. Why?”

“You just haven’t been yourself lately. You’re so quiet. And I hate to say it, but you seem to be getting a little careless.” She reached over and touched his bruised face gently. “This... the sprained wrist last month... I know as cops taking a few knocks is an occupational hazard for us, but...”

“That’s it? You’re worried about a few bumps?”

“It’s not just that. You barely talk to anyone anymore, we never see you outside of work. Half the time it’s like you’re somewhere else entirely. You seem to be just going through the motions, and it’s not like you. Look, Don, you know you can talk to me. If there’s something wrong, something on your mind..”

“I’m fine,” Don snapped back at her. “Jeez, so I’m not shooting my mouth off every five seconds, big deal. Just get off my case!”

Jo blinked, taken aback.

Don looked instantly mortified. “Ah dammit, I’m sorry, Jo, I didn’t mean that. I... guess I’m tired, that’s all, I haven’t taken a break in ages. I’m really sorry.”

Jo smiled and patted his shoulder. “Hey, it’s ok, we all have bad days. You’re right, I can’t remember the last time you had any time off. Maybe you should take a few days. You don’t want to burn yourself out.”

“Yeah, maybe I’ll do that.”

“And I mean it, Don, if there’s ever anything you want to get off your chest, I’m right here. Got it?”

Don gave her a weary smile. “I promise, if I ever have a problem you’ll be the first person I call.”

“You’d better. If I find you’ve been hiding things from me I’ll be forced to torture a confession out of you.” The uncomfortable grimace that crossed Don’s face was not the response she had expected.

The detective glanced down the corridor, to where the little man could still be heard screaming. “What’s his problem, anyway?” he asked.

Sensing a deliberate change of subject, but deciding not to call him on it, Jo replied, “He murdered his girlfriend. He’s been sleeping around with half the women he knows, but when he caught her having an affair he shot her. According to him, men have a duty to sow as many wild oats as possible, whereas women should be confined to the kitchen or the bedroom. Lucky me, I get to interview this delightful specimen of manhood.”

Don shook his head sympathetically. “Rather you than me.” He indicated the stack of papers on his desk. “I’ve got stuff to get on with here. Have fun with Mr Misogyny.”

“Oh, I will.” Jo stood up. “You take care of yourself, Ok? Don’t make me worry about you.”

“I won’t.”

Jo squared her shoulders and walked off down the corridor. Don, meanwhile, took a sheaf of papers from the stack on his desk, and stared blankly at them. Shit, Owen was getting careless. Whatever he had done to Don in the past, he had always taken care to make sure that the bruises never showed, but over the last few months he had found himself having to make excuses for an increasing number of injuries. Last month’s ‘sprained wrist’ had happened when Owen had grabbed his arm and twisted so hard that he had felt the bones grinding together.

Maybe he should have said something to Jo. Surely, surely she would understand.

He remembered the contempt with which she had looked at the handcuffed man as she had told him, ‘You wouldn’t know a real man if you saw one’, and shuddered. No, he couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t bear to have her look at him that way.

 

                                                            XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Danny had the depressingly familiar feeling that he was getting nowhere fast. Anthony and Lizette Roberts had not killed each other, Sid had proved that at the autopsy, but all of the evidence they had found pointed to exactly that.

They had found the bullet, lodged in the wall behind where Mr Roberts had been standing. Ballistics had proved that it had been fired from a gun registered to Roberts himself, the gun they had found in Lizette’s hand. The only prints on the knife belonged to Roberts, and a large stain on his shirt had turned out to be Lizette’s blood. There was no foreign DNA, no fibres, nothing at all to indicate that anyone else had been involved. Had Roberts perhaps killed his daughter, then himself? But then who had put the gun in Lizette’s hand?

There was a beeping sound behind him. Danny turned and frowned at his computer screen. It didn’t make sense, but there it was, right in front of him. He turned his chair around in time to see Mac walking past the door. “Hey, boss,” he called.

Mac stepped through the doorway, smiling a little. “Boss? I hope you’re not thinking of doing it on _your_ desk this time?”

“Somehow I don’t think we’ll have the time. Take a look at this.” He indicated the screen. “Lizette Roberts’s phone records show an outgoing call at eleven forty-five am yesterday, at least three hours _after_ she died. The call was to Jared Morris’s phone.”

“Morris was telling the truth. Which begs the question; how does a dead woman make a phone call?“

 

                                                           XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

“I told you, I don’t know.”

Don, on the opposite side of the table, leaned back in his chair and looked sceptically at the young man. “Y’know, Jared, you’re gonna have to start telling us the truth sooner or later. Anthony and Lizette Roberts didn’t kill each other, which means that someone went to a lot of trouble to set up that crime scene, and until I have evidence to the contrary I’m lookin’ at you.”

“I _am_ telling the truth. You checked my phone, you know I’m not lying.”

“Oh, we know you got the phone call, except that call didn’t come from Lizette, did it? So tell me, Jared, who picks up a dead woman’s phone to call you?”

“I... I don’t know. I mean... it sounded like her, but there was so much screaming... maybe I didn’t hear right. I thought it was her...” Morris’s voice trailed off.

Don put his head on one side. “Look, we know that Lizette was dead long before you got the phone call. You said you heard Mr Roberts yelling. Did you hear him shout a name, anything that might have indicated who else was in the room at the time?”

“No... no, I don’t think so. I don’t remember.”

“How well do you know Lizette’s other friends? A pretty, rich girl like her, did any of them seem jealous of her at all?”

“Uh, not that I can think of. I didn’t really hang out with any of her other friends.”

“Why not?”

Morris spread his hands. “Rich trust fund kids, poor scholarship student... I didn’t really have anything in common with them.”

“None of them except Lizette?”

“Like I told you, Lizzie’s one of the nicest people I’ve ever met. We met at college. I got lost looking for the cafeteria and she showed me the way. She’d always go out of her way to help if she saw someone in need, that’s the kind of person she is... was. There’s no reason anyone would want to hurt her.”

“What about Lizette’s father? Did he ever mention anyone who might have a grudge against him? Ex-employees, old business partners, anything like that?”

“I already told your people all this yesterday. Twice.”

“Third time’s the charm.”

Morris sighed. “Mr Roberts was usually pretty busy, I didn’t see much of him, and he never really spoke to me when he was around. I never had much of a head for business so I guess we didn’t have very much to talk about. Look, I’m trying to help as much as I can, but I’ve told you everything I know. Why aren’t you out there looking for the bastard who murdered Lizzie?”

 

                                                              XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

“Nothin’. Guy still swears he had nothin’ to do with the murders. I was in that room with him for the best part of two hours this morning and he stuck to his story the whole time. He ain’t talkin’, Mac.”

“We’re getting nowhere. We ran Morris’s DNA and fingerprints, no priors—he’s never even gotten so much as a parking ticket. The only prints on the knife belong to Anthony Roberts, and Lizette’s prints are on the gun. There’s nothing that points to anyone else in connection with the Roberts’s deaths.” Mac sighed. “Cut Jared loose, we’ve got nothing to hold him on. Danny, good timing.”

Mac and Don both looked up as Danny pushed the door open. “Hey,” he grinned at Don, who’s mouth turned up at the corners for a moment, then turned to Mac. ”What am I on time for?”

Mac blinked. Something about the way Danny had smiled at Don... he had almost expected his lover to plant a kiss on the tall detective’s lips. The thought should have angered him, but somehow he found that he didn’t mind too much. “I, uh... need you to go over the crime scene again. Look for anything we might have missed, no matter how insignificant it might seem.”

“We went over every inch of that place, what could we have missed?”

“I don’t know. But there has to be something.”

“You’re sayin’ I didn’t look hard enough?” Danny looked hurt.

“You know I’m not saying that,” Mac replied gently. “But you know how it is. Things get overlooked, it happens to the best of us. I went over that apartment too, don’t forget.”

Danny’s expression softened a little. “Ok, I’m on it.” He turned to Don. “Walk me out?” Don seemed taken aback by the request, but he nodded and followed Danny out of the door.

Once they were out of sight of Mac’s office, Danny stopped. “Ok, what’s goin’ on?”

“What?”

Danny frowned. “C’mon Don, don’t try to play me, I know you too well. You wanna tell me what’s wrong?”

Don gave him a cheerful smile that couldn’t have been more fake if it tried. “What makes you think there’s anything wrong?”

“That!” Danny jabbed a finger towards his face. “That stupid smile. The way you clam up when I try to talk to you about anythin’ that isn’t work, the way you disappear after every shift like hangin’ around for five minutes might kill you...”

Don’s smile widened almost desperately. “I’ve been busy, that’s all. Everything’s fine Danny, really...”

“There,” Danny fumed. “Everything’s fine, huh? C’mon Don, we all know what it means when someone says they’re ‘fine’."

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Don jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I gotta go release Jared Morris, I’ll catch up with you later, Ok?”

“Don, wait...” Danny called after him as Don practically bolted for the elevator. Danny saw his hand shoot out and jab at the button to close the doors, and sighed as his friend disappeared from sight.

Well, he could have handled that better. You know what he’s like, he scolded himself. He’s been your best friend since... well, forever. You even slept with the guy for a couple of years. You know him better than anyone else. Confronting him only makes him pull away. You should’ve... well, I dunno what you should’ve done. He’s a stubborn son of a bitch. Shit, Mac is so much better at this than me.

Angry both at Don and at himself, Danny stormed off to find his kit. Perhaps going over the Roberts’s apartment again might help to clear his head.

 

                                                           XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

The traffic had been hell, and to top it off an SUV had pulled out of a side street and slammed into the car in front of him. The impact had not been that bad, but the driver of the SUV (who looked like he was high on something, Danny told the uniformed cops who showed up ten minutes later) had grabbed a tyre iron and stormed up to the car, screaming and threatening the woman driver as if the smash had been her fault. Seeing no other help at hand, Danny had stepped in, attempting to talk the man down, and finally pulling his gun as the guy started smashing the car’s windows. He’d kept the raging man at bay until more cops had shown up and between them managed to wrestle the tyre iron away and arrest him.

By the time he’d given the officers a statement and filled in a couple of forms, and then fought his way through the traffic, it took Danny over two hours to get to the Roberts’s apartment. The guard at the door gave him a bored little wave as he stepped into the sumptuous living room. Two dark splashes of blood stained the white carpet a deep, murky red.

Pulling on his latex gloves, Danny knelt down and studied the larger of the two stains. This one had come from the bullet wound in Mr Roberts’s head, and although they had collected as much of the biological evidence as possible, he could still see little flecks of brain matter adhering to the carpet.

He wasn’t sure what he could have missed. And who had made that damn phone call? None of it made sense.

Seeing nothing of note in the spot where Roberts had died, Danny turned and looked at the smaller bloodstain, the one where Lizette’s body had lain, and his eyes widened in surprise. That couldn’t be right. Could it? No, there was no way...

Several strands of hair lay on the carpet next to the stain. Danny reached out a gloved hand and picked them up. The hair was long, platinum blonde with dark roots, whoever it belonged to clearly dyed it. This wasn’t right. Both he and Mac had scoured the carpet for clues. There was no way in hell that they would have missed these hairs. Danny would have staked all the money he had that they hadn’t been there the first time. And yet, here they were...

The hairs seemed almost to burn his fingers as he dug an evidence bag out of his kit. This was bad. If they really had missed this the first time around, someone was in serious trouble, and that someone would be either himself or Mac. Neither was a prospect that Danny relished.

Sealing the hairs inside the little bag, Danny sat back on his heels. He sat in silence for several minutes, thinking, then decided to bite the bullet. Peeling off his gloves, he fished his cell phone out of his pocket and dialled.

“Hey, Mac. I think we’ve got a problem...”

 

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Mac scowled at the evidence bag as if it had deliberately ruined his day. “How could we not have seen this?”

“We both looked over every inch of that damn carpet. Honestly, Mac, I’d bet my life they weren’t there.”

“Off the record, Danny, so would I. But I can’t think how they might have gotten there. There’s been an officer on the door day and night since the murders were called in, no one’s been inside that apartment since we processed the scene.” Mac’s lips were pressed into a thin, hard line, a sure sign that he was pissed off. “Have Don speak to the officers who were assigned to guard the Roberts’s apartment. Did any of them leave their post? Or did they go into the apartment for some reason? The hairs might have been tracked in.”

“Sure.” Danny winced inwardly. After their conversation this morning he was probably the last person Don would want to talk to.

Out in the corridor, Danny took his phone out of his pocket and found Don’s number. For a while he contemplated; what should he say? He would relay Mac’s message, of course, but that stubbornly tenacious part of him still wanted to find out what was going on with his old friend. And how was he going to do that? Hey, Don, Mac wants you to talk to the officers who pulled guard duty at the crime scene, and by the way, what the hell is wrong with you?

Yeah, that wasn’t going to work. Perhaps he should leave it alone? Surely Don would have told him by now if it was anything really bad...

Yeah, right. He barely speaks to you at all any more.

Danny hit the call button. Screw it, he was going to ask again. Don might be stubborn, but damn it, so was he.

 

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Don picked up his happily chiming phone. He expected it to be Owen, his partner had taken to calling him at work two or three times a day ‘Just to see how he was doing’. He looked at the name on the screen.

Danny. Shit.

His own breathing sounded impossibly loud. What if Danny asked him again what was going on? What would he say? Danny had been right about one thing, he felt like biting his own tongue off every time he told someone he was ‘fine’.

The bruise under his eye was throbbing horribly. Don wondered how much of it was real pain and how much was in his head. It was as if his own body was telling him to give up and come clean.

His thumb hovered over the answer button. Danny might be calling about something else entirely. He might not even bring it up.

But what if he did?

Don glanced around the office. It was unusually quiet, he didn’t think that he would be overheard. I’ll tell him, he decided. Only if he asks. He probably won’t, but if he does, then I’ll tell him. I don’t know how much longer I can keep this up.

The chiming stopped abruptly as the phone fell silent.

Don stared at the screen, now showing a missed call from Danny. He’d left it too long.

He dropped the phone onto his desk as if it were white hot. So close. He’d been so close. He felt himself trembling, deafened by the cacophony of voices inside his head telling him to pick up the phone and call him back. He stared at the now blank phone as if it were a dangerous animal that might bite him if he touched it. He didn’t think he’d ever felt so miserable in his entire life.

_Screwed up again, eh?_ one voice said amiably, audible over everything else. _Well, there’s a surprise._

 

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‘This is Don Flack. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave a message.’ There was more life and expression in those few words than he had heard in Don’s voice for the last two years.

Danny sighed. He hadn’t really expected him to answer anyway. “Hey, Don, it’s me. Listen, I went over the crime scene again and... well, I found something that I swear wasn’t there before. Mac wants you to have a word with the guys who were assigned to watch the place, see if they might have left the door for a couple seconds or somethin’. Y’know, just in case. I, uh... I’ll catch you later, Ok?”

He hung up, disappointed. Don probably wouldn’t have told him anyway.

He’d better go test those damn hairs.

 

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The woman behind the desk looked up. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m detective Mac Taylor. I called earlier.”

The woman smiled, crow’s-feet crinkling amiably behind her wire rimmed glasses. “Oh, detective Taylor, of course. Go right in, Mr White is expecting you.” She gestured towards a door to her left.

“Thank you.”

Mac knocked on the door the woman had indicated and pushed it open. It was a typical solicitor’s office; several filing cabinets lined the walls, most with houseplants sitting on top of them, and framed certificates hung on the walls. In the middle of the room was a big, darkly polished wooden desk, behind which sat a man with steel grey hair, who smiled at Mac as he walked in.

“Ah, you must be detective Taylor, Maggie said that you’d be coming.” The man stood up. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask you for some form of identification? I can’t hand over private legal documents to just anyone.”

Mac returned the smile as he handed his badge to the man, along with the relevant paperwork. Mr White studied both items, before handing the badge back and offering his hand for Mac to shake.

“Thank you for taking the time to see me, Mr White, I appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble at all, I assure you. I can’t tell you how shocked I was when I heard what happened to Anthony, and poor Lizette...” The man shook his head. “Terrible. Just terrible. I heard that your initial theory was that they had killed each other. I can tell you now, detective, that that would have been impossible. Tony and Lizette Roberts were as close as it’s possible for a father and daughter to be, even more so after little Eloise passed away. Neither one of them was a killer.”

Mac looked at him quizzically. “You seem to know a lot about them.”

“I’ve handled Tony’s business affairs for as long as I can remember. They were more like old friends than clients.”

“Well then you’ll be pleased to know that we’ve discounted that theory. Which means that we are looking for someone else in connection with the murders.”

Mr White nodded sagely. “Which is why you requested a copy of Tony’s will. You want to know who might have benefited from their deaths.” He picked up an envelope from his desk and handed it to Mac. “It’s all there, detective, but I can give you the gist of it right now if you’d like.”

Mac looked at him in surprise. “Mr Roberts was a very wealthy man, is his will really that simple?”

The solicitor smiled. “It’s very simple, detective. Tony Roberts left fifty thousand dollars each to Lizette and his son, Jonah. The rest went to charity.”

“All of it?”

“Every last cent.”

It was not very often that Mac found himself lost for words, but this was the closest he’d been for a while. “Which charity? Any why leave so little to his children?”

“Lizette was well on her way to starting her own fashion business. She’s... she _would_ have made a lot of money in her own right in a few years time, she had no need for an enormous contribution from her father. Jonah... well, let’s just say he never really applied himself the way Lizette did. He’s adopted—after Tony’s wife Cecilia was diagnosed with her heart condition it was considered too risky for her to carry another child—and he considers himself to be something of an outsider with the family. And he certainly plays up to it. I’ve lost track of the amount of money Tony’s given him over the years, he’s missed rent payments, written off countless cars, run up debts, and Tony’s bailed him out every time. I kept telling him that it wouldn’t do Jonah any good, he’s got to learn to stand on his own two feet sometime. It took a while, but Tony eventually saw my point. He decided that fifty thousand would be enough to start Jonah off, at least to wipe out his debts and give him a clean slate, and would hopefully encourage him to become independent.

“As for the charities... well, I’m sure you already know that Lizette’s daughter Eloise died when she was nearly three years old. A hereditary heart condition, the same type Cecilia had. Tony was heartbroken when she passed, first his wife, then his granddaughter... Lizette was distraught, of course, she could barely function in the months afterwards. I’m certain she wouldn’t have survived had she not had her father’s support. They both decided that they didn’t want anyone else to have to go through that hell. A few weeks after the funeral, Tony came to me and told me that he wanted to change his will. Why should his money be spent on fast cars and luxury apartments when it could potentially save lives? I even helped him decide which charities to donate to.”

“He was obviously a very generous man. Do you know where we might find Jonah, or Mr Roberts’s second wife?”

“The last I heard, Jonah was in Las Vegas, he only ever called Tony when he needed money. Tony divorced his second wife, Kerri-Ann, last summer, they’d been married three years. Irreconcilable differences, apparently. She lives in the city—here, I’ll give you her address.” He walked over to a filing cabinet, searched through a drawer of carefully arranged papers, and pulled out a small card which he handed to Mac.

Mac put the card in his pocket. “Thank you, Mr White. With any luck it might give us a lead.”

“My pleasure.” The solicitor shook his hand again. “I sincerely hope you find whoever did this, detective Taylor. Anthony Roberts was one of the few genuinely good people I have ever had the pleasure of meeting.”

Mac bid the man farewell and left the office, nodding to the secretary, Maggie, on his way out.

He had barely gotten out of the building when his cell phone rang. “Taylor.”

“Mac, it’s me.” Don’s voice. “I just got a call from Jared Morris. He thinks our mystery caller might be Kerri-Ann Roberts, Anthony’s ex-wife. Apparently she’s not much older than Lizette, he says it used to be difficult to tell them apart when he called the apartment.”

“I’ve got her address, I’m on my way to talk to her now.”

No sooner had he hung up on Don when his phone rang again. This time it was Danny’s voice he heard. “Mac. I got the DNA results back on those hairs I found at the crime scene. Kerri-Ann Roberts, the ex-wife. She got caught driving drunk when she was a teenager, that’s why she’s in the system.”

Mac took the card that Mr White had given him out of his pocket and read the address to Danny. “I’ll meet you there.”

 

                                                             XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

The woman ran her fingers restlessly through her light blonde hair. She wore a pink sweater and a lot of jewellery, and looked far too bright and gaudy for the dingy interview room. “I don’t understand... how can Tony be dead?”

“He was murdered, Mrs Roberts, along with his daughter Lizette.” Mac tossed a couple of the crime scene photos onto the table in front of her. “We found your DNA at the scene.”

“That... that’s not possible, I haven’t seen Tony since the divorce.” Kerri-Ann Roberts picked up the photograph of Roberts’s body, gave a horrified gasp, and dropped it again. “Oh my God, who would do that to him?”

“Why did you get divorced?” Danny interjected. “Did Mr Nice Guy have a dark side, huh? Was he controlling, violent? He smack you around a little sometimes?”

“How dare you?” The woman looked genuinely outraged. “Tony was the nicest man in the world, he never so much as raised his voice to me.”

“Then what went wrong?”

The ex Mrs Roberts looked down at her hands. “He divorced _me_. I... had an affair.”

“Ah, I see. So you marry this rich older guy and get to live in luxury while still having a bit on the side, huh?”

“I loved Tony. The money had nothing to do with it.”

“Then why cheat on him?”

“Like I said, Tony was a really nice guy. Nice, but a little... well, boring. Strictly missionary position only, you know. I really did love him, but... I guess I just needed more excitement than he could give me.”

“And what about after the divorce? See, we know you signed a pre-nup before you got married, which entitled you to absolutely nothing from your husband’s estate in the event of a divorce—no money, no property, not so much as a damn silver teaspoon. Seein’ your ex in his fancy-ass apartment with his millions of dollars, and you left with nothin’... must’a pissed you off some, right? So you, what, decided to get yourself a little payback?”

“I don’t like what you’re implying.” Kerri-Ann looked at Danny coldly. “Tony was very generous after the divorce—far more generous than I had any right to expect. He gave me the apartment in Midtown and a house in Miami, and enough money to keep me going until I can get back on my feet. He even cited irreconcilable differences instead of adultery in the divorce proceedings. He didn’t want to ruin my reputation.”

“Yeah yeah, the guy was a damn saint. So why’d you murder him?”

“I did not murder him! I could never hurt Tony, or Lizette.”

Mac stepped forward again. “Then why did we find your DNA in the exact spot where Lizette died? And why did you call Jared Morris from her cell phone four hours after she died?”

“Who?” Kerri-Ann asked irritably.

“Jared Morris, Lizette’s friend.”

“I don’t know any Jared Morris. Lizette didn’t either.”

Mac was silent for a moment. “You’re sure?”

Kerri-Ann sniffled, she looked on the verge of tears. “I knew most of Lizette’s friends. She was only five years younger than me, but she was cool with me being with her dad. She used to invite me along to parties, we’d go out to a bar sometimes. She even asked me to model some of the dresses she’d designed. She could have been pissed about her dad marrying someone closer to her age, but she was so... so good to me. I... I just can’t believe they’re gone.” She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smudging her mascara.

Mac shuffled through the papers he was holding, and handed her the mugshot they had taken of Morris. “Are you sure you don’t know him?“

Kerri-Ann looked at the picture. “Yes, of course I know him.”

“You just said you didn’t know Jared Morris.”

“I don’t.” The woman turned the picture towards Mac. “That’s Jonah. That’s Tony’s son.”

Mac looked across the room at Danny, then back at her. “Jonah Roberts is supposed to be in Vegas.”

“The hell he is.” Kerri-Ann looked down at the picture, scowling. “He came to see me last week, asking for money. I told him no. After he left, I found that the little creep had stolen my hairbrush.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who hasn't heard of him, Houdini was an illusionist famous for his incredible escape acts.

Danny stood to one side of the door, gun drawn. “You ready?” he asked. 

Don, opposite him, nodded without conviction, and Danny, fed up by now with his friend’s seeming apathy, felt a stab of annoyance. “Hey, you with me here or not?” he hissed, trying to keep his voice down.

Don glared at him. “Of course I am,” he whispered back harshly.

“Well, would ya mind showin’ it?”

“What is your problem?“

“I think I should be askin’ you that.” 

“You’re gonna start this _now?_ ” 

“There’s a murder suspect in there.” Danny nodded towards the door. “I don’t wanna wind up gettin’ shot because you can’t get your head in the game.”

“My head is just fine. You wanna take a look at yours, you’re gettin’ paranoid.” Don raised a hand and knocked loudly on the door. “Jared Morris? NYPD, open up!”

“Paranoid my ass, you did that to make me stop talking.”

There was a clattering sound from inside the apartment, then silence.

Danny narrowed his eyes at Don. “If you think I’m dropping this you got another thing comin’ pal.”

The two men stepped back, guns raised. Don lifted a foot and kicked the door open. They entered the apartment cautiously, Danny checking behind the door in case anyone was hiding behind it, but the place seemed empty. 

One of the large windows at the far end of the room was open. Danny crossed to it and looked down. 

“Don, he’s takin’ the fire escape!“

Don turned and dashed back out of the apartment, while Danny climbed out of the window. He could see the man scrambling down the metal staircase about two floors below him, and set off in pursuit. He hated chasing people down fire escapes—down and round, down and round, it made him feel dizzy. He made it down to the street and took off after Jared, who turned a corner and disappeared down an alleyway. 

Danny grabbed his radio. “He’s goin’ round the back.”

He turned into the alley. Jared was well ahead of him, making for the fence at the far end. If he made it over he could easily disappear into the crowds on the busy street. For a horrible moment Danny thought that he might lose him, when a door opened and Don catapulted into the fleeing man, sending them both tumbling into a pile of garbage bags. 

Danny caught up and dragged the man from under the rubbish. “Hi Jared,” he said companionably as he snapped on the handcuffs. “Or is it Jonah? Seriously man, we’re never gonna get to know the real you if we don’t even know your name. You Ok?” This was addressed to Don, who had picked himself up and was brushing the remains of someone’s leftover pizza off of his jacket.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“So you keep saying.”

“Danny...”

“I said I wasn’t dropping it...” He was interrupted by sirens as the first squad car pulled up at the mouth of the alley. 

Don scowled. “Yeah, well you’re gonna have to.” He took Jared—Jonah—under the arm and led him towards the waiting car.

Danny stared after him. He was tempted to call out to Don, to keep pestering until he got an answer, but bickering in front of a murder suspect would probably be considered unprofessional. He trailed out of the alley after the detective, determined that, whatever Don was hiding, he was damn well going to find it out.

                             

                                                      XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Mac sat in the uncomfortable chair, watching the man on the opposite side of the table. “Why, Jonah? Why kill your father and sister?”

Jonah Roberts stared back at him. “You’ve got the wrong person. I gave you my DNA, my cell phone, my I.D, everything you asked me for. Why would I do that if I was lying?”

“Because you thought you could outsmart us. You gave us your cell phone—your second cell phone, the one registered under the name Jared Morris—to throw off our investigation, and you gave us your DNA because you knew that, being adopted, we wouldn’t be able to use it to connect you to your family. The I.D you gave us was a fake—a pretty good one, but a fake nonetheless. And after your ex-stepmother told us who you really were, we did some digging. I know a few people in Vegas, and once I explained the situation they were kind enough to rush through a warrant to search your apartment. They found bank statements and phone bills addressed to Jonah Roberts. So if you’re not Jonah, why would you be getting his mail?”

There was no reply.

“Kerri-Ann said that you called on her last week, and that when she refused to give you money you stole her hairbrush. Hardly a high value item, so why take it?”

The man folded his arms and remained sullenly silent. 

“Was it so you could frame Kerri-Ann for the murders? We didn’t find her hair at the crime scene when we processed it the first time.” Mac leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “You took that hairbrush as insurance, just in case plan A didn’t work. And it didn’t. So when you realised that we weren’t buying the idea that Lizette and your father killed each other you went back to the apartment. The guard on duty said that he heard a disturbance down the hall and went to investigate, a disturbance that I’m guessing was caused by you. He was gone for maybe two minutes, but that was all the time you needed to leave Kerri-Ann’s hair at the scene for us to find.” Mac paused, studying the suspect. “So what happened, Jonah?”

There were many expressions that a murderer might take on when they were caught, Mac had learned. Some might look surprised that they had been found out, some looked upset or remorseful, others would do their best to keep up their innocent appearance to the end. Jonah Roberts was none of these—the young man looked thoroughly pissed off.

“They should have just given me the money.”

“What money?” Mac asked.

Jonah looked up at him, a hard gleam in his eyes. “I needed money. I like to gamble, Ok? I started out small, just a few grand here and there. That’s why I started calling myself Jared Morris, I knew if people found out my father was a millionaire they’d never leave me alone. But I got in too deep, I lost a few high stakes games and I... I owe a few people, so I asked Dad to lend me some. He should’ve just said yes.”

“Why didn’t he?”

“He said he was fed up with funding my addiction, and that until I quit gambling he wasn’t going to give me any more money. I told him I was in trouble but he said it was about time I learned to deal with my own problems. Cheap bastard wouldn’t even cover the flight from Vegas.”

“So what did you do when he refused?”

“I was desperate. You don’t understand, these guys, they’re hardcore, if I didn’t get them the money I owed them they’d make my life a living hell. If Dad wouldn’t give it to me... well, there was only one way I was going to get it.”

Mac nodded slowly, understanding. “If your father and Lizette were dead, you would inherit everything.”

“If they’d just given it to me they wouldn’t have had to die. Even Kerri-Ann said no. She’s got enough money, Dad gave that cheating bitch a hell of a lot more than he ever gave me. So I went back to the apartment. I figured I’d give them one last chance to give me the money. Lizzie was there. She said that Dad was right, that I would never be independent if they kept bailing me out. Can you believe that? She was still living in his damn apartment and she had the nerve to say that I was too dependant on him? I had the knife in my coat. She begged me not to but... I needed that money, dammit. When she was dead, I wiped the knife handle clean, then I got Dad’s gun and I waited for him to get home. He tried to save Lizzie, he tried to pull the knife out...”

Which is how his prints came to be on the handle, Mac thought.

“...But I pulled him away. I told him, for the last time, to give me the money, but he just kept trying to get to Lizzie. So I shot him. Then I wiped the gun and put it in Lizzie’s hand.”

“And then you found Lizette’s cell phone and dialled your own number to make it look like she called you. Then you left, made the 911 call and waited for us to show up, before returning to the apartment and playing the part of the distraught best friend.”

“It would’ve worked too. If that bitch Kerri-Ann hadn’t told you who I was I’d be a fucking millionaire by now.”

“Except you wouldn’t.” Mac pushed his chair back and stood up. He pushed a piece of paper towards Jonah. “This is a copy of your father’s will. All those millions of dollars... they’re going to help people have better lives. So that people like your mother, and your niece Eloise, don’t have to die before their time. You stood to inherit fifty thousand dollars.” 

Mac wished he could take satisfaction from the horrified look on Jonah’s face. 

“You killed your family for nothing.”

 

                                                        XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

April 15th

 

The sun shone brightly, casting dappled shadows through the trees. It seemed incongruous to Mac that a cemetery should seem so cheerful. It wasn’t very often that he attended the funerals of the victims he had sought justice for, but for some reason he had felt compelled to come to this one. 

The two coffins rested on either side of the large, reopened grave. Both were surrounded by flowers, and on top of one sat the framed picture that Don had noticed in the apartment that first day, the picture of Lizette and her daughter at the beach, smiling in the sunshine.

“She was a very strong young woman.” Mr White, standing next to him, was looking at the photograph. “She was determined to keep going after Eloise passed, but even on her best days it was as if there was something missing, some part of her that had gone and that she could never get back.” The old man nodded towards the large headstone which marked the grave as that of Cecilia Roberts, and later her granddaughter Eloise. “They’re together now, as they should be.”

Mac looked around at the crowd of people that surrounded the grave. Jonah, now sitting in a cell somewhere, had been the last surviving member of the family. “Anthony and Lizette obviously had an impact on a lot of people.”

Mr White smiled at him. “As I told you before, detective, it is not very often that one gets to meet a truly good person.” He gestured at the coffins. “I was privileged enough to know two.”

 

                                                          XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Don flopped into his chair and sighed. It had been a long week. So far he'd dealt with two shootings, one case of blackmail, a bank robbery, and then, just to make his life interesting, some nut job had called the precinct saying that he’d planted a bomb inside a hospital. They’d evacuated as many of the patients as they could, but there were many, a great many, who were too sick to be moved. It had taken them the best part of a day to find the bomb, which had turned out to be nothing more than an alarm clock duct taped to a briefcase. They later found out that the guy who had made the call had been stalking one of the nurses and had left the ‘bomb’ to get her attention.

Most exhausting of all had been avoiding Danny.

Don shuffled through the papers in his in-tray, finding the usual forms and brown envelopes, when something caught his eye. Another envelope, but this one was purple, and covered with butterfly stickers. Scrawled on the envelope in spidery handwriting were the words ‘Mister Flak’. He cast a suspicious glance around the office, suspecting a possible prank. Detective Mason had once passed a box of donuts laced with hot sauce round the office. Don had retaliated by leaving a booby-trapped envelope on his desk. Mason had had to spend an entire day walking around New York covered in pink glitter. 

He opened the envelope. There didn’t appear to be anything unpleasant inside, just a couple of pieces of paper, one bright yellow, one orange. He unfolded the yellow one carefully. There were more butterflies stuck to it.

 

Dear Mister Flak

My name is Kelly. I don’t know if you remembre me, but a few months ago you saved me and my brother Tommy. Our daddy was trying to hurt us and you and the other polisemen stopped him. He hurt our mommy very badly and she had to go to the hospitul but the doctors made her all better, just like you said. We are going to live with our grandma and grandpa in Arizona, they have a big house with a garden and rabbits and it will be really nice and daddy won’t be able to get us again. Thank you for saving us, Mommy says you are a heero.

Lots of love,

Kelly Moss.

P.s. Tommy drew a picture of you.

 

On the orange sheet of paper was a crudely drawn stick figure. It was wearing a cape. 

The sunlight streaming through the precinct windows seemed suddenly warmer, and Don felt his face break into a smile. He had asked Mac once why they did it, why they put themselves through this shit every day. These few misspelled sentences were the answer. He felt gloriously happy for Kelly and Tommy, and for their mother, who he had last seen in the hospital, clinging to life after her husband had beaten her to a pulp.

_She stood up to him. Even a woman has more balls than you._

If she did it... maybe I could too.

_Then again, look at what happened to her..._

And just like that, his little ray of sunshine was gone.

Don put the letter down and placed his elbow on the desk, his chin resting on his hand. He must be insane for even thinking it. Mrs Moss had told her husband that she was leaving him, and had ended up in hospital. He’d probably end up in the morgue.

If she did it...

It was an insane thought, but it refused to go away.

 

                                                      XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

The apartment was silent when he got back. Don closed the door quietly behind him, listening. He couldn’t hear any music, any clatter from the kitchen. Softly, he crossed to the bedroom and peeked around the door, but it was empty. Owen must be working late. He took off his jacket and tossed it overy the back of a chair, went to the closet and put his gun up on the top shelf, where he usually kept it while not on duty, then sat down on the bed, hands dangling between his knees. The thought was still going round and round inside his head.

If she can do it...

What should he do? 

Owen wasn’t here. He could just grab his stuff and get out. 

And go where? 

And was it really worth it? After all, when he thought about it, did he really have it that bad? It wasn’t as if Owen spent every day beating him up. It could be a hell of a lot worse. And Owen loved him, he told him so all the time. Maybe he was overreacting.

_Who do you think you’re kidding? You’ll never leave him. Besides, do you really think you can do better?_

She did it...

What would he do if he did go? He had no money, Owen controlled the finances, and most of Don’s paycheck went straight to him. ("Since we're a couple, I think it's only fair that we contribute equally towards the bills," Owen had said once. Considering his partner made twice as much money as he did, Don hadn't thought it particularly fair, but by now he knew better than to argue.) He had nowhere to go, without money he couldn’t even book into a cheap hotel or anything. 

She did it... If she can do it...

Don stood up. He opened the closet again and pulled out a rucksack, which he threw onto the bed, before grabbing the first clothes that came to hand. He took them over to the bed and stuffed them into the rucksack. 

It all felt rather surreal, as if he were watching himself from across the room. What the hell was he doing? This was madness. 

_If you leave, you’ll be homeless._

I’ll sleep in the car.

_Except it’s not your car, is it? He may have bought it for you, but it’s still in his name. He’d probably have you arrested for stealing the damn thing._

Then I’ll sleep at the precinct for tonight. Loads of the guys do it. I'll say I’m working late and hole up in an office somewhere.

_And after that?_

I’ll think of something.

_He'll come after you, you know that don’t you? He’ll never let you go. You’ll be looking over your shoulder every second of every day. Why put yourself through that?_

Because I can’t take this any more. 

Don carried the rucksack into the living room and dumped it on the couch. Owen kept a change jar in the kitchen. There might be twenty dollars or so in there. It wasn’t much, but it might buy him food for a couple of days.

He went to the kitchen and was reaching for the jar, which Owen kept on top of the fridge, when he heard the door open. He froze.

Oh fuck...

“Don? Don, are you...” Owen’s voice abruptly cut off. 

There was a horribly ominous silence. The only sound Don could hear was his own breathing. 

“Don!”

He heard the heavy footsteps coming towards him. He couldn’t move. Not that there was any point in running, there was only one door to the kitchen. He was cornered. 

Owen appeared, his huge frame filling the doorway. His eyes settled on Don and his face darkened. It was as if an unexploded bomb had taken on human form. He held up the rucksack. “What the fuck is this?” he asked slowly.

Something, some small part of him that he had buried long ago, resurfaced—the part that, no matter what the world threw at him, remained defiantly and fundamentally Don Flack. He drew himself up to his own, not unimpressive height, and looked the enormous man square in the eye.

“What does it look like?" he challenged.

“What?” Owen’s voice was dangerously quiet.

I can do this... I can do this...

“I’m leaving.”

Owen dropped the rucksack and took a step towards him, and another, until he’d backed him up against the fridge. He loomed over Don, using his bulk to block any escape route he might have, his face barely an inch from the detective’s own. “You’re not going anywhere.”

Normally Don would have tried to shrink away, but an almost euphoric recklessness had overtaken him. He leaned closer to Owen, almost daring the man to hit him. This time he was damn well going to hit right back. “Yes, I am. I’ve taken this shit long enough, I’m not doing it any more.”

Two massive hands grabbed his shoulders and slammed him against the fridge. The back of his head struck the metal door hard enough to daze him, but the adrenaline coursing through him kept him upright. He shoved Owen away from him, snarling. He expected the big man to come at him again, but Owen seemed to have been caught off guard by his uncharacteristic audacity. Don got his breathing under control.

“I’m leaving, Owen,” he repeated. He put a hand to his head where it had hit the fridge door, and felt the warm stickiness in his hair. He raised his palm to show Owen the blood on his fingers. “I’m leaving... because I’m better than this.”

Owen’s demeanour changed the second he saw the blood. The enraged expression left his face, to be replaced with one of shock. It was as if he couldn’t believe what he had done. “Oh my God... Don... I’m so...”

“Don’t. Don’t you dare tell me you’re sorry. I’ve heard it before.”

Owen was looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. He stared at him for several long moments, then, to Don’s surprise, pointed to the jar on top of the fridge. “That’s what you wanted, right? Take it, it’s yours.” 

“...What?” 

“Take it,” Owen repeated. “It’s the least I can do. I know you don’t want to hear it, Don, but I really am sorry. I’ve been a major asshole, I know that, I just... I can’t control it sometimes. I love you so much, and I just can’t stop all that emotion from spilling over. But you’re right, if you’re not happy here, you should go. I won’t try to stop you.” There were tears in his eyes. “Is there anything I can say that would change your mind?”

Don shook his head.

“Ok. Take what you need. In fact...” Owen took his wallet out of his pocket. He opened it, took out a handful of bills and held them out to him. “Here, take it. It should be more, what with all the shit I’ve put you through, but it’s all I have at the moment.” He waited, then, when Don didn’t move, he bent down and placed the money down on top of the rucksack. “I’ll... I’ll be in the living room.” Owen turned and walked out of the kitchen. 

The silence seemed to echo around the room. Whatever had been holding Don up drained from him and he had to lean against the fridge to keep himself standing. It was only now that he noticed how badly he was trembling. This hadn’t gone the way he’d expected at all. He’d readied himself for a fight, or at least to run.

_It’s too easy._

I’ll take easy.

Collecting his thoughts, he reached up for the jar and took the change out of it, shoving it into his pocket. He picked up the money that Owen had left with his rucksack. Sixty dollars. It would do for now.  
For a while he stood there, heart pounding. He was doing it. He was actually doing it. He was getting out. The thought almost made him laugh.

Ok, he had money, he had clothes. His wallet and cell phone were still in his jacket, in the bedroom. 

Owen was sitting on the couch. He barely looked up as Don walked past, he stared at the floor as if lost in thought. What was he thinking, he wondered.

He took a look around the bedroom, his last look. It was not a place he had ever particularly liked, the room was rather cold and impersonal. Everything—the stark whiteness of the walls, the ebony shelves and dresser, right down to the big iron framed bed with its steel-grey sheets—put him in mind of a prison cell. One which he was now, finally, escaping.

There was just one more thing he needed. He opened the closet and reached up to retrieve his gun... and felt his stomach drop when his fingers encountered only the smooth wood of the empty shelf.

Don had been afraid before. As a cop, fear was an inescapable part of the job. He had stared down the barrel of a gun more than once, he had faced terrorists, serial killers, people on drugs or with mental health issues whose behaviour was so unpredictable that taking your eyes off of them for a moment could get you killed, and every time there was that same, familiar stab of fear, the moment when you wondered if this would be the time that you didn’t get to walk away. 

He had never been more terrified than he was right now.

For a moment he considered ignoring it, simply walking out and leaving the gun behind. But then he would have to explain to the chief why he didn’t have it, which would probably lead to some very awkward questions.

_You’ll have to tell them everything. Everything he’s ever done to you. Imagine the looks you’ll get every morning when you walk into work, all those contemptuous, pitying stares. They’ll all know what a pathetic, spineless little piece of shit you are. You’d be better off walking out there and asking him to shoot you right now. It’d be a mercy killing._

He had no choice. Every step feeling like he was dragging a lead weight behind him, he walked back into the living room. Owen hadn’t moved, he remained motionless on the couch. Don watched him, trying to summon up the courage to speak. His throat had gone dry and he had to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth.

“Where’s my gun, Owen?” he asked.

The older man looked up at him. His eyes were reddened from the tears that were running down his face. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Where’s my gun?” Don repeated. He tried to keep his voice from shaking, and wasn’t at all sure that he succeeded.

Owen’s face was a picture of feigned confusion. “Isn’t... isn’t it in the closet?”

“Owen...”

Owen seemed to shrink into himself. Slowly, he slid his hand under one of the couch cushions and withdrew the gun. “I wasn’t going to hurt you,” he protested as Don took a step backwards. “I... I was going to wait until you were gone.”

Don didn’t like where this was going.

“I was going to wait until you were gone,” Owen repeated. “I was going to open that bottle of wine, the one I’d been saving for a special occasion, you know, maybe drink a little toast to all the good times we had together, and then I was going to...” His grip tightened on the gun. “I don’t deserve you, Don, I know that. But... my life has no point if you’re not in it. I can’t live without you, baby. When you walk out of that door... that’s it for me.”

A sort of frigid numbness spread through Don’s body, making him shiver. This couldn’t be real, it couldn’t. He was five minutes from freedom.

_He’s playing you._

I know.. But what if he means it?

_Please... Do you really believe that you actually mean something to him? He couldn’t give a shit about you. You’re only here so that he’s got something to smack around when he’s pissed off, and something to fuck when he’s horny. You know what, you should leave. You’d be doing him a favour. Then he could go out and find himself a real man._

“No,” he whispered. “No, you don’t get to do this to me any more. I don’t know what kinda problems you got, but they’re your problems, and I’m not gonna take responsibility for them any longer. I’m going.” He stepped forward and held out a hand. Owen wordlessly handed him the gun.

Don walked back to the bedroom, pulled the door to behind him, and let go of the breath he felt he had been holding in forever. He pulled on his jacket, and picked up the rucksack. He reopened the door cautiously, half expecting to find Owen, enraged and vengeful, on the other side, but the older man hadn’t moved. One hand hovering close to his gun, he crossed the room and opened the front door. 

“Please, Don.” There was an expression of utter devastation on Owen’s face. “Please don’t leave me.”

And for a moment, one horrible moment, he almost wavered. He was walking out on four years of his life, throwing away everything he had, leaving him with nothing but a few dollars and a bundle of mismatched clothes. But a moment was all it was.

“Goodbye, Owen.”

He walked out, closing the door behind him.

Don followed the corridor to the elevator, punched the button for the lobby, and watched the doors slide shut. He caught sight of his reflection in the mirrored walls. It had been a long time since he had looked in a mirror, he had long since grown disgusted by what he saw there. But this time he looked. The man who looked back at him sported dark circles under his blue eyes, he looked pale and tired, but there was a smile, of sorts, on his face. The doors opened, and Don walked through the lobby and out into the street. 

I did it. I did it! 

The sun was going down, casting a warm red glow across the sky. Tomorrow promised to be a good day.  
He decided to head for the precinct. He would spend the night there and make other arrangements in the morning. But there was no hurry. He strolled on at a leisurely pace, taking in the city, every sight, every sound, every smell, in a way that he had not done for years. 

He lost track of time. He wandered, enjoying being able to go wherever he wanted, do whatever he felt like. Having eaten nothing since lunch, he found a hotdog stand and ordered one with ketchup and onions. It tasted so good he went back for another. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been allowed to eat like this, Owen considered street food to be garbage. He’d have an aneurysm if he could see me now, Don thought. He licked the ketchup off his fingers, imagining what the man would say about his table manners.

The thought of Owen pulled him up short, and he felt a sudden tug at his chest. He loved the guy. He had loved him. He couldn’t figure out what had gone so wrong. A sob hitched in his throat. He felt the tears gathering, and it took all his willpower to keep himself from crying for what he had lost, what he might have had, if only Owen had not hurt him. If only...

_If only you’d been good enough for him._

It was dark now, and he was getting cold. How long had he been out here? Three hours? Four? He’d better get going if he planned on bedding down at the precinct. If he timed it right he would get there just before the night shift started, when it would still be busy enough for his reappearance to go unnoticed. 

The street lights cast a warm glow over everything, and the place still bustled with life even after dark. Music pumped out of the open doors of bars and nightclubs, there was chattering, shouts and laughter on all sides. Cars, bikes, people, all passed him by, everyone busy with their own lives, oblivious to him. A young couple walked past him, the guy with his arm protectively around the girl, and he silently wished them more luck than he had had.

He was less than two blocks from the precinct when his phone rang. He wondered if it might be work, but he didn’t recognise the number that appeared on the screen. “Hello?”

“Is this Don Flack?”

“It is.”

“My name is Jennifer, I’m calling from St David’s hospital.”

The night air seemed to grow colder. Was it Danny? Or Mac, or Jo? One of the guys from the precinct? Was someone hurt? “What’s happened?” he asked.

“Sir, I’m calling to inform you that Mr Owen Keller was admitted to us an hour ago. He’s overdosed on sleeping pills. A neighbour gave us your name as his emergency contact.”

The cold air turned Arctic.

_Well, there’s a result. He loves you enough to kill himself over you. That’s what you wanted, isn’t it?_

No, I didn’t want this. I didn’t do this!

_He told you he would kill himself if you left. It’s your fault._

“Sir?” The woman’s voice broke through his thoughts. 

What choice did he have?

“...I’ll be right there.”

 

                                                          XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

May 28th

 

Jake Garnett had been a firefighter for nearly fifteen years. It was a difficult, dangerous job, but overall he found it enormously rewarding. The knowledge that there were people alive today who might not be here if it weren’t for him gave him an immense sense of satisfaction. As a kid he used to run around their backyard with his sister’s jump rope, pretending it was a fire hose, determined that one day he would be a real firefighter and save lives. 

Which was why this type of call-out pissed him off so much. 

“Damn kids,” he muttered. “They really got nothin’ better to do than set light to dumpsters at three in the morning?”

“I know what you mean.” His colleague, Andrea Hogan, grinned at him. “Here we are hangin’ out behind some grimy pizza parlour putting out their little bonfire, when we could be dealing with a real emergency. Hell, there might be a cat stuck up a tree somewhere, and we’re missing it!”

“Har-dee-har. You’re hilarious, you know that?” Jake approached the smouldering dumpster. “Keep that hose ready,” he called back towards the truck, “It could still be burning inside.” 

The metal walls of the dumpster were warped from the heat, while the plastic lid was now barely more than a melted, misshapen lump. Jake stood on tiptoe and shone his flashlight through a gap under the twisted lid into the dark interior. The trash inside, while still smoking, did not appear to be alight, but it was probably a good idea to get the lid off and turn the hose on it one more time, just to be sure. 

Something caught his eye, a twisted, blackened object amongst the soggy remains of the garbage. He was wondering why someone would wait till May to throw out their old Halloween decorations, when he caught, beneath the smell of the smoking rubbish, the acrid, sickly-sweet odour of burnt flesh. 

“Hey, Andrea? I think we need to get the cops out here.”

 

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Danny heard the familiar click of high heels behind him. The sound irritated him, not for any particular reason, it simply added to his annoyance. Today of all days, he did not need a case like this. 

Jo stopped beside him and wrinkled her nose at the sight of the scorched remains that had been lifted carefully out of the dumpster and placed on the ground. “Ok, I know it’s almost barbecue season, but someone went a little overboard with the chargrill.”

“Got that right,” Danny replied. “Vic could be male, female, black, white... Cause of death’s gonna be impossible to determine until we get the body to the morgue.”

“Where Sid will perform his usual miracles and tell us our vic’s name, address, date of birth, favourite colour and how often he feeds his goldfish. I swear, that man just has to ask a dead body how it died and it sits right up and tells him.”

“Well, he’ll have fun with this one. It’s gonna be ages before we even get an I.D.”

“Maybe not that long.” Don, who had been poking around some crates which had been stacked near the burned out shell of the dumpster, held out a small, brown leather object. Danny couldn’t help but notice that he had handed the wallet to Jo instead of him. In fact, he seemed to be doing his best to avoid any kind of contact with him at all.

Perhaps it was a trick of the light—the little courtyard was bathed in that weird, almost luminous glow that you got when the sun was barely up—but the detective looked ill. His eyes were dark hollows in his pale, almost gaunt-looking face, he hadn’t shaved and he seemed a little unsteady on his feet. 

Jo looked at the driver’s licence in the open wallet. “Stephen Riggs, age thirty eight.” She held up the card for Danny’s inspection. A cheerful, sharply angled face with black skin and a shaven head smiled out from the photograph. “If this is our vic, does anyone else think it’s a little odd that his wallet was just left here for us to find? Why not toss it in the fire with the body?”

“Maybe someone wanted us to know who he was. Look, if you’re Ok out here, I’m gonna go inside and get a statement from the restaurant owner.” Don turned away.

Danny opened his mouth, but before he could launch into an impromptu interrogation, Jo put a hand on the taller man’s arm and pulled him back. “Hang on there, buster, you’ve got something more important to do.”

“Like what?”

“Like go home. You’re obviously not well. Look at you, you look like a strong breeze might knock you over.” 

Don flashed her that now familiar false smile, and Danny felt a strong urge to smack him upside the head.  
“I’m fine, Jo, just didn’t sleep too good last night, that’s all. Might be the flu comin’ on, my head feels a bit fuzzy. It’s nothin’ a couple pain killers won’t cure.” 

She had narrowed her eyes at him—the I-know-you’re-bullshitting-me-but-I-can’t-prove-it stare (patent pending)—and pursed her lips as though holding back the words she really wanted to say. “Ok, if you insist. But you’re not working overtime today, you’re going to go straight home and get some sleep. I mean it. If I have to... tie you to your bed in order to get you to rest then so help me, I will do it.”

Danny waited. Nothing. No smart comeback, not even a suggestively raised eyebrow. Jo had handed him innuendo gold and Don hadn’t run with it. What the hell was wrong with him? He scowled at the detective, who murmured, “Sure, I’ll do that,” and disappeared into the restaurant.

“The flu? That’s the best he could come up with?” Jo looked as worried as Danny felt. “Do you get the feeling there’s something he’s not telling us?”

Danny nodded. He had that feeling all right, and the fact that Don seemed to turn into Houdini whenever he got within ten feet of him was doing nothing to alleviate it.

 

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Don closed the door behind him. He had lied, an officer had already taken a statement from the owner of the pizza parlour, a red-faced little man who seemed more pissed off at having to get a new dumpster than the fact that a corpse had been found on his property. Instead he headed for the office at the back of the restaurant and flopped into a chair. He had to sit down before he collapsed. He had at least told the truth about one thing, he hadn’t been sleeping. He hadn’t slept properly for weeks. 

It had started a couple of weeks after Owen had left the hospital after his overdose. Something, some sound, had woken him in the middle of the night, and he’d turned over to find Owen lying barely an inch away from him in bed, staring at him. He hadn’t said a word, even when Don had asked him what was wrong, he just lay there, watching him. Don hadn’t dared to move. He didn’t know how long he had lain there with those grey eyes boring into him through the darkness. It could have been as little as a minute, but to Don it felt like hours. And then Owen had simply turned away and fallen asleep, leaving Don wide awake and completely unnerved. It had taken him two hours to get back to sleep. Owen had denied all knowledge of the incident the next morning. “Probably just a bad dream,” he had told him dismissively.

And so it had continued. For weeks. He would wake up in the early hours of the morning to find those eyes on him. The man never spoke, never threatened, never even moved. Sometimes, if he had been working late, he would go to bed only to find Owen already awake, watching him. He would undress under that baleful stare, feeling horribly exposed as he stripped down and climbed naked into bed, his skin crawling as he lay down beside his partner, keeping as close to the edge of the mattress as possible, and try to get to sleep with that gaze burning into his back. It scared him. He would lie awake for hours, too afraid to close his eyes, or be jolted from his sleep, certain that he would turn around to find Owen holding a knife over him, or pointing a gun at his head. Even when the big man was fast asleep and snoring next to him, his paranoia would not let him rest.

He shifted in the uncomfortable chair. He desperately wanted to sleep, his eyelids felt as though they had lead weights attached to them, but he forced them to stay open. He told himself that it was because he was working, and not because he was afraid to close them.

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A problem shared is not always a problem halved.

The more Danny studied the crime scene, the less he liked it. 

There were several cigarette butts on the ground in the courtyard, and at first he had wondered if the vic, perhaps drunk or high, had climbed into the dumpster and accidentally set himself on fire. It was a surprisingly common occurrence. The discovery of a plastic bottle, which from the smell of it had contained gasoline, had pretty much shot down that theory. 

Ok, so he was dealing with a possible body dump. Burning was a great way to destroy evidence, after all. Had someone killed Stephen Riggs (if, indeed, it was him), placed his body in the dumpster and set it alight? 

He turned his attention to the melted lump of plastic that had been the dumpster’s lid, which the firefighters had prised away from its hinges so that the body could be removed. It was leaning against the front of the dumpster, and Danny took hold of it, meaning to move it to the middle of the little yard where the light was better. It wouldn’t move. He tugged at it gently, not wanting to damage it any further. It jiggled, but remained firmly attached to the front wall of the dumpster. Danny lifted the lid as high as it would go and twisted his body sideways so that he could look underneath. There, half embedded in the melted plastic, was a padlock. 

That was odd. There was no way anyone could get something as large as a human corpse into a locked dumpster, which must mean that the padlock was put in place after the vic had been put there. Why lock a dead body inside?

With a sinking feeling, Danny looked into the dark interior of the metal box. It was black with soot and stank of burnt garbage and cooked flesh. He concentrated on the cleaner areas where the firefighter’s hoses had washed away much of the oily mess from the sides. And there they were, four parallel scratches in the metal. As he cast his eyes around, he could see more of the same marks.

He really, really didn’t like this.

 

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“Well, we’ll have to wait for the DNA results to be absolutely sure, but the autopsy indicates that this is indeed Mr Stephen Riggs.”

Jo gave the M.E a sideways look. “’The autopsy indicates?’ Our vic’s burned beyond recognition. How do you do it? C'mon, Sid, I know I'm not a genius like you, but you've got to let me in on your secret.”  

Sid snapped his glasses together and put them on. He tried to hide it, but Jo thought he looked rather pleased at being referred to as a genius. “I’m sorry to have to shatter your belief in my abilities, but unfortunately there was no Sherlock Holmes-like deductive reasoning going on here. I simply took a look at his medical records. Stephen Riggs was an army veteran, he fought in Iraq. The convoy he was travelling with hit a roadside bomb. Three men were killed, another two lost limbs, and Mr Riggs ended up having a titanium plate inserted into his head to hold his skull together. Our vic has a metal plate in exactly the same place.” He scraped away a little more of the charred tissue from the dead man’s skull, and Jo could see the faint sheen of the metal underneath. “I’m no mathematician, but I would guess that the odds of finding Mr Riggs’s wallet next to a completely unrelated victim who also happens to have a plate in his head are pretty slim.” 

“So you’ve identified our vic for us, now how about you tell me how he died?” 

“Very unpleasantly, I’m afraid. There’s traces of soot in the throat and lungs which can only have been inhaled, and if you take a look at the hands, you’ll see that the fingernails are broken, some have even been pulled away from the nail bed, as if he had been clawing at something.”

Jo’s face had turned pale. “Danny found scratch marks all over the inside of the dumpster. That explains why the vic was padlocked inside. He was burned alive. And someone didn’t want him to get out.”

 

                                                             XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Danny tried to concentrate on the screen, with little success. His mind kept wandering. He had been hoping for a nice, quiet day at work, and now someone had gone and spoiled it by picking that morning to burn a man alive. 

“Hey, Danny.”

And then there was Don. Whatever the guy said, there was no way he had the flu. Watching him in that courtyard this morning, Danny wouldn’t have been surprised if he had keeled over right in front of that damn dumpster. 

“Anyone in there?”

And now he was feeling guilty for even thinking about him. Don should be the last person on his mind right now. Today was special. It was...

“Hello, Ground Control to Major Danny, come in Danny...”

The voice finally filtered through the ramblings in his head, and Danny turned to find Jo standing behind him. “Oh, hey Jo. I was miles away, sorry.”

“So you should be. I’ve been trying to get your attention for, like, forty five seconds.” She looked amused.

“Uh, yeah, sorry,” Danny repeated. He indicated the computer screen. “Uh, the DNA results confirmed that Stephen Riggs is definitely our vic. The tox report came back too. Riggs had ketamine in his system.”

Jo looked thoughtful. “Ketamine’s a tranquilliser. Even for a strong man, forcing an ex-serviceman into that dumpster would have been difficult. If Riggs were drugged it might have made the job easier.”

“Or he could have taken it himself. Riggs was busted for possession of marijuana last year. If the weed wasn’t doin’ it for him any more perhaps he moved onto somethin’ harder. I took a look at that bottle we found at the scene, too, the one that had gasoline in. Found some unusual marks on the lid, it looks as though someone used their teeth to open it. If there’s saliva present we might get a DNA profile, but I haven’t tested it yet.”

“Well then, hadn’t you better get on it?”

Danny ran a hand over his face. “Uh, actually Jo, I was kinda hoping to leave on time today. I mean, you know I’d normally stick around, but... well, I wanted to spend the evening with Mac. It’s kinda our anniversary, and we missed the last two... we had the Freezer Killer last year, and that mall shooting the year before, and...”

“Then why the heck have you just been sitting here staring into space?” Jo practically dragged him out of the chair. “Go, go, get outta here. Go spend the evening together. And if Mac thinks he’s working late he’s got another thing coming. In fact, I’m gonna go kick his butt out the door right now... You’re still here! Go!”

Grinning, Danny decided it was probably best to leave before Jo twisted his arm behind his back and marched him out of the building.

 

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Mac glanced across the table. The soft lighting of the restaurant seemed to cast a golden aura around Danny, his dark blond hair shone like a halo. An unlikely angel. He smiled inwardly at his overly sentimental view of his lover. He decided against sharing his thoughts with Danny, the younger man would probably raise a suspicious eyebrow and demand to know who he was and what he had done with Mac Taylor!

Danny was reading the menu, a look of growing apprehension on his face. “Are you sure we can afford this? I mean, this all looks really good, but...”

“No ‘buts’,” Mac replied firmly. “This is the first time we get to spend our anniversary together in three years, we’re going to do it right. Now are you going to quit complaining and decide what you want, or do I have to order for you?”

Dinner was delicious, followed by dessert and probably the best cup of coffee Mac had ever tasted. The pretty, red-haired waitress, who’s name tag identified her as ‘Serena’, waltzed up to their table and flashed a dazzling smile. “All done, gentlemen? I hope the meal was to your liking?”

“It was excellent, thank you.”

“Yeah, everything was great,” Danny echoed. 

The girl looked as though this was the best news she had heard all day. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Can I get you anything else? More coffee?”

“That’s Ok, thanks, I think we’re done.”

“No problem. If you’re in no hurry to leave, cocktails are half price at the bar. Perfect for a special occasion.” She gave them a knowing wink.

“Uh, thanks, but...”

“Aw, c’mon Mac, just one?”

Mac turned back to Danny, surprised. “Since when were you a cocktail person?“

“Never, but I wanna be able to tell everyone at work that I saw Mac Taylor drinking somethin’ pink with a little umbrella in it.”

Mac laughed. Danny was looking at him with a comical puppy dog expression. Dammit, he couldn’t refuse that man anything. “Alright, just one, we have to work tomorrow, remember? But nothing pink.”

“But with a little umbrella, right?”

They made their way through the restaurant, passing laughing couples and loud, happy parties, until they found the bar. 

“So,” Mac said, “This was your idea, what do you want?”

“Sex On The Beach.” Danny grinned. “Oh, you meant, what do I want to _drink_. Ok, uh, I’ll have a Manhattan.”

Mac ordered an Old Fashioned, good-naturedly taking Danny’s teasing about how the cocktail matched the man drinking it, and was surprised at how much he enjoyed it. Thankfully, it did not come with an umbrella. They should do this more often, he decided. Not too often, but certainly more than they did now. An older couple were eyeing them suspiciously from a few seats away. Were he a less conservative person, he might have been tempted to pull Danny in for a kiss, just to see the woman’s false teeth fall out of her mouth with shock.

There was a raucous peal of laughter from the corner of the bar, loud enough to make him look up. A group of people were sat on a collection of squashy leather couches around a low table, one man towering over the rest, and Mac recognised Owen Keller. It had been a while since he had last seen him, and if he were honest he could have waited a whole lot longer. Something about that guy really bugged him. Don, he noticed, was sitting next to him, almost out of sight in the big man’s shadow. The group were talking over each other in loud voices, gaining a few annoyed glances from the bar’s other patrons. “This has to be your third raise this year,” Mac heard someone say. “You’ve gotta tell me your secret.”

“No secret.” Owen’s booming voice carried clear across the bar. “Just damn good business. The directors know what it takes to keep the company running, and what keeps the company running is me. I drop a few hints that I’ve had offers from their competitors, they give me my bonus early to keep me on side. Besides, who else is going to keep you idiots in line?” 

There was a loud murmur of sycophantic agreement from the rest of the group. 

“See, you have it easy,” Owen continued, with the air of an evangelical preacher. “You go where you’re told, give ‘em your little sales pitch, they buy it, job done, right? But who tells you where to go, huh? Who has to analyse the data and decide what to sell when, and who to sell it to? Who decides who’s an asset to the company and who’s just dead weight? Without me, you guys would be the pharmaceutical industry’s equivalent of door-to-door salesmen, knocking on people’s doors and asking if they want to buy a measles vaccine. Still a step up from Don though, huh?” He clapped the detective on the shoulder. “See, baby? If you had a few more brains you could be sitting in a cosy office earning a six figure salary, instead of chasing bag snatchers and reading shoplifters their rights.”

There was another round of braying laughter, and Don seemed to shrink in his seat. A white hot finger of rage jabbed Mac in the chest.

“Hey, come on now,” another man’s voice came back, “I’m sure we all sleep sounder in our beds knowing that detective Flack is out there serving and protecting.” It certainly didn’t take a cop to detect the sarcasm in his voice. 

“Please, any idiot could do it.” There was no such sarcasm from Owen. “Look tough, carry a gun, it’s not exactly difficult. You could dress a ten year old as a cop and the sheep would fall obediently into line the second he flashed his badge. People are programmed to bow to authority. Most people, anyway.” He flashed his audience a knowing grin, letting them know that he, at least, did not consider himself to be among those people.

The finger of rage in Mac’s chest had turned into a dagger. Danny was beside him, a hand resting on his arm, and he felt the younger man’s fingers clamp down painfully on his elbow. He moved forward sharply, and Mac grabbed his shoulder to pull him back. “Leave it alone,” he murmured. 

Danny’s face had turned an angry shade of red. “He can’t talk to him like that!“

“I know. But this is nothing to do with us.”

“The hell it isn’t.”

“Danny, believe me, I would like nothing more than to go over there and tell that man exactly what I think of him...”

“So let’s go.”

“And what about Don? He’s embarrassed now, how do you think he’d feel if he knew we’d overheard all that? We all know how people get when they’ve been drinking, tomorrow morning they’ll have made up.” He took Danny firmly by the arm. “Come on, let’s get out of here.” He started to walk away, and Danny, after one more furious glare in Owen’s direction, followed reluctantly. 

The night air was pleasantly warm, a precursor to what promised to be a long, hot summer. There was a line of cabs at the roadside, waiting for customers, but on such a beautiful evening Mac did not feel like sitting in a stuffy car all the way home. “You up for a walk in the park?” he asked.

Danny gave a little “Mm-hmm,” of affirmation. 

Central Park was one of his favourite places, especially at night. While Mac would never admit to being a romantic soul, he nevertheless felt a certain attraction to the place. The lights glowed brightly, illuminating the branches of the trees above them and turning the park into a fairytale forest. He briefly wondered if Don and Owen ever walked here together. For some reason the thought annoyed him. They strolled past happy, smiling couples, all arm in arm, murmuring sweet nothings to each other. The hopelessly romantic part of him wanted to take Danny’s hand, to feel his warmth, his closeness, to be connected to him. The other part, the one that had been a cop for far too long, told him that two men holding hands in the park at night would be liable to attract the wrong sort of attention. New York may be a modern, enlightened city, but there were still plenty of people who hadn’t gotten with the program yet. 

This wasn’t right. While he and Danny were not wrapped around each other like so many of the couples they passed, they should at least be talking to each other. Was Danny pissed off because he had stopped him confronting Owen in the restaurant? “It’s a nice night,” he remarked. 

“Yeah,” Danny replied. 

Mac waited, but Danny offered nothing further. “Should be warm again tomorrow,” he tried again.

“Mm-hmm.”

Several moths fluttered around the lamp above them, some of them attempting to get to the source of the light and bouncing off of the glass. This was ridiculous. He knew the man’s most intimate secrets, and here he was trying to force small talk about the goddamn weather. “Rain by the end of the week though.” 

“Did you see how tired he looked?” Danny asked abruptly.

Mac looked at him. It didn’t take a genius to guess who he was talking about. “Don?”

“You should’a seen him this morning, I thought he was gonna fall asleep at our crime scene. He says he’s got the flu.”

“You sound sceptical.”

“He’s been actin’ weird for ages. He never talks to me any more, in fact he goes out of his way to avoid speaking to me. And that stupid fuckin’ smile... He’s different. He’s... not Don any more.” Danny came to a sudden halt. He shut his eyes and shook his head, annoyed with himself. “Jeez, Mac, I’m sorry. We’ve had a great evening and all I can talk about is...”

Mac held up a placating hand. “It’s Ok, Danny. I’m comfortable about your past with Don. To be honest, I’m a little worried about him too. He’s a...” He faltered slightly. “He’s a good friend.” After all, it was true. But in that moment a vision had risen up in his head—a vision of Don in that stark white hospital bed, eyes closed, unresponsive, unmoving. Squeeze my hand, Don. Squeeze my hand. Please...

Suddenly, ‘friend’ did not feel like the right word.

 

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Don could hear birds singing. He could feel a gentle breeze ruffling his hair. He was surrounded by green—trees, grass—the sky above him was more blue than he had ever seen it. He wasn’t sure where he was; Central Park, perhaps? Everything was still, completely at peace. And yet... he couldn’t help feeling that he was being watched.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He turned. Danny was next to him, staring up at the sky. He lowered his gaze to look at Don. “The scenery... and you.”

“Danny...” He wasn’t sure what to say. It had been so long since he’d spoken to Danny, really spoken to him. “I... yeah, it’s great.” He looked warily at the man beside him. “What are you doing here?“ he asked eventually. 

Danny smiled at him. “You don’t have to do this, you know, Don. You don’t have to keep being afraid. I’m here. I always have been.”

“You didn’t want me.” He could barely get the words out, it hurt so much.

“I’ve always wanted you, babe, I just... couldn’t see it. I’m an ass, I admit it.”

He wanted to believe it so badly.

Don looked around. They were alone, judging by how quiet it was, not another soul around for miles. But they were there, he was sure of it, hundreds of eyes staring at him from the undergrowth, the trees, the very sky itself. He could feel their gaze penetrating him.

“I can’t,” he said. “I want to get out, but I can’t.”

Danny raised a hand and brushed his cheek with his fingertips. “Yes you can, Donnie. There’s nothin’ you can’t do.”

Danny leaned towards him. Don could feel the other man’s lips against his own and he closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again it was Mac who sat beside him, one hand against his neck, caressing gently. 

“He’s right, Don, there’s nothing you can’t do. Think of everything we’ve been through together—bombs, terrorist attacks, maniacs with guns... Don’t let him be the thing that destroys you.”

“Mac...I... I don’t understand...”

But Mac was kissing him again, and it felt wonderful, and all around him he could feel the eyes watching...

His eyes opened. The bedroom was dark. He could feel Owen lying next to him, his body completely still.  
Don rubbed a hand over his face. He was sweating. What the fuck was that all about? He could understand dreaming about Danny, kind of, but Mac..?

He rubbed his eyes. He couldn’t understand it. He didn’t love Mac. Well, he did, but not... not _that_ way. Ok, he’d thought about the guy occasionally, even when he’d been with Danny—there may have been times when it felt like their friendship wasn’t quite enough—but that hadn’t meant anything, not really. And Mac was his boss, there was no way it could... He didn’t love Mac, he loved Danny. Owen! He loved Owen.

Didn’t he?

Oh fucking hell.

Moving quietly so as not to wake the big man beside him (if, indeed, he was asleep, he could never be sure any more) Don turned away and curled into a ball, confused, frightened, and knowing that there was no way he was getting back to sleep tonight.

 

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May 29th

 

This kitchen had to be the most cheerful room Jo had ever been in. The walls were painted bright yellow, the curtains, the tablecloth, even the apron hanging from a hook on the door, we’re all pristine white. There were flowers in a vase on the windowsill. It seemed almost indecent that she should be here under such circumstances. 

The young man sitting at the table stared at the driver’s licence. Jo recognised the look on his face, she had seen it enough times. He finally tore his gaze away from the picture and looked up at her. “How?” he asked.

Jo paused, measuring her response before replying, “He was found in a burned out dumpster. We believe the fire is what killed him.” The man drew a sharp, choking breath, and Jo had to force herself to say the next words. “It looks like the blaze may have been started deliberately.”

“You’re saying... someone killed him?”

“Based on the evidence we have, it would appear so.” Jo leaned forward in her chair. “Jason, I know this is hard for you right now, but can you think of anyone who might have wanted to hurt your brother?”

Jason Riggs looked again at the little card he held in his hand. “A dealer, maybe? Steve served in Iraq. When he came home... he was different. He had nightmares. Mom dropped a coffee cup on the kitchen floor once, and when I looked round Steve was on the floor with his arms over his head. He thought someone was shooting at him. He started smoking pot, said it helped him calm down. He tried meth a couple times.” He ran his thumb gently over the affable face on the card. “He changed so much. I can’t remember the last time he looked like this.”

“Did Stephen ever take ketamine?”

Jason shook his head. “I don’t know, I haven’t seen him in a while. He was high every time I came round. I tried to make him stop, to get him to go to rehab or somethin’, but he wouldn’t do it. Said he’d rather spend the rest of his life stoned out of his mind than remember what he went through in that goddamn desert. In the end I gave up. If I’d kept trying, if I’d just...”

Jo put a hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Jason, you didn’t put him in that dumpster. I promise you, we’re going to do everything we can to find whoever killed Stephen.”

Jason looked up at her again. There were tears in his eyes. “What am I gonna tell Mom?”

Jo left the house feeling deflated. She loved her job, but looking into a person’s eyes as you described the death of their loved one was not something she would ever get used to.

Her cell phone rang. “Danny, I hope you’ve got something for me.”

“You bet I do. We just got the DNA results from the saliva on the gasoline bottle. Dale Benson, he’s a known drug dealer. I’m willing to bet he’s where Stephen Riggs bought his pot.” He read out an address.

“I’ll meet you there.”

 

                                                               XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

“I didn’t kill no one.”

“Of course you didn’t, Dale. Stephen Riggs locked _himself_ inside that dumpster before setting himself on fire, right?” 

“Who?“ 

Danny tossed a picture across the table. Dale Benson reached out a rather dirty hand and pulled the photograph towards him. “Oh, Steve the soldier. Yeah, I know him. He’s dead?“

“You should know, Dale, you killed him,” Jo replied.

“I told you, I didn’t kill no one.” 

Jo held up an evidence bag. “Then how did your DNA get on the bottle of gasoline that was used to light Stephen on fire?” 

Benson’s jaw dropped. “I ain’t never seen that before!“

Danny stepped forward, taking the evidence bag from Jo’s hand and waving it in Benson’s face. “We found this at the crime scene. Your saliva’s all over the lid. How the hell do you explain that?” 

“You’re tryin’ ta set me up, that’s how I’d explain it!”

“You forced Stephen Riggs into that dumpster, you poured gasoline on him, then you set him on fire and locked him inside.” Danny’s voice was raising, he was aware that Jo was watching him out of the corner of her eye, and didn’t care. “What’d he do to you, Dale? Forget to pay you that extra two dollars for the second grade weed you sold him? Don’t get me wrong, I’d be pissed off too, I just don’t know if it’d be worth burnin’ someone to death for.”

“Where were you at three a.m. yesterday?” Jo interceded before Danny’s voice could get any louder.

Instead of looking shifty, Benson’s face lit up triumphantly. “Three a.m. yesterday? I was in lockup. Had a couple beers too many and some cop got on my case, spent the night in a cell. Well, go on, go check it out, then we’ll see who’s tellin’ the truth.” He glared at Danny. 

“We’ll do that,” Jo said. “In the meantime, you’ll be spending another night behind bars. Sorry about that.”

She stood up and gestured for Danny to follow her out of the room. “Are you Ok?” she asked once the door closed behind them. “I thought you’d be all mellow after your hot date last night.” 

Danny sighed. “We had a great night. It’s just...” He wanted to rant, to vent his spleen the way he had wanted to last night, but decided that Don had, indeed, been embarrassed enough. “Some guy at the restaurant said somethin’ that pissed me off, that’s all. Guess I just can’t get it off my mind.”

Jo put her hands on his shoulders. “Hey, just let it go. You spent the evening with the charming and handsome Mac Taylor, nothing else matters. Speaking of which, how did it go? Tell me everything. Did you have a good time? Was it romantic? Did you get it ooooon?” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively, and Danny felt himself blushing.

“Jo...” he groaned.

“See? You’re smiling again already.” She straightened up, suddenly business like. “Come on, we’d better get back to the lab. If Benson’s telling the truth about his whereabouts last night, we’re going to have to take another look at that gasoline bottle.”

As they made their way through the precinct, Danny spotted a familiar figure disappearing through a doorway further along the corridor. 

“Uh, hey, Jo, I’ll catch up with you in a sec, I think I mighta left my jacket in the locker room.”

Once through the door he paused, wondering what his next move should be. At least the locker room was deserted. He’d just have to wing it. He found Don at the far end of the room, slumped on a bench, eyes half closed as though he might fall asleep. He cleared his throat loudly.

Don started as if he had been woken suddenly. He looked up, blinking, eyes widening when he saw who was standing in front of him.

“Uh... hey, Danny...uh, how’s it goin’?” He glanced past Danny towards the door. Danny took a step closer, putting himself squarely in Don’s field of vision. He finally had a real chance to talk to his friend, to find out what was wrong with him, but he wasn’t sure what to do next.

“Ok, I guess. Uh...we got a suspect in the Riggs case; Dale Benson, he’s a dealer.”

“Benson... yeah, I know him, he’s pond life.”

“Yeah, you only need to talk to the guy for five minutes to know that. Problem is, he claims to have been in lockup at the time of the murder, which means that unless he’s lying we’re back to square one.”

“Well, that’s easy enough to find out. I’ll go check it out right now.” Don rose and made to duck past him.  
Almost without thinking, Danny shot out a hand and grabbed his arm. He expected Don to pull away from him, but instead the detective froze, his body stiffening as if an electric shock had passed through him. He stared at Danny, blue eyes startlingly wide.

“What’s goin’ on, Don?“

Don’s eyebrows drew downwards, as if, for a second, he had seen someone else. “Lemme go.” He tried to twist out of Danny’s grip, and Danny clamped his fingers down harder, the action pushing Don’s shirt sleeve further up his arm.

“Not a chance, pal. You’ve been avoidin’ me long enough, now I wanna know what the fuck is wrong with you!” 

Don appeared lost for words. His eyes flickered down to the hand on his arm, and Danny followed his gaze. 

There were three little marks on the inside of Don’s wrist. They were a raw, angry red, and looked for all the world like cigarette burns.

Danny looked at Don in confusion. The taller man seemed to have turned to stone, his eyes darting from the marks to Danny and back again. There was a look of horror on his face.

“Don... are you Ok?”

There was no reply.

“Donnie, tell me what’s goin’ on.” He was almost begging. Don still did not answer, and Danny could feel him trembling. 

Don didn’t smoke. But Danny remembered someone who did. He remembered the scene in the restaurant the night before. His skull felt as though someone had lit a fire inside of it. 

“D... did Owen do this to you? All those bruises, the sprains, the injuries, the ones you said you got chasing suspects or tripping over things... was that him? Don, if he’s been hurting you...” 

“Stop.” Don was shaking even harder now, and his expression had turned from horror to rage. “Stop it. Don’t try an’ come off like you’re all concerned about me. You don’t give a crap about me!” 

Danny felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. “What the hell are you talkin’ about? Of course I care about you, Don, you’re my best friend.”

“Yeah. That’s all I’ve ever been, isn’t it? Even when we were screwin’ around together an’ you said that we might be able to make a go of it. Friends with benefits, that’s all it was.”

“No, it wasn’t... why would you even think that?”

“’Sorry, Donnie, I’m just not sure that I’m really into guys, you understand right? We’re still buds though, huh?‘ An’ then next thing I know you’re shacked up with Mac an’ you’ve got this perfect life, like I never even existed. ‘It’s Ok, Don won’t mind, he’s my best friend after all’.”

“I thought... you didn’t seem to mind when me an’ Mac got together. You’d moved on...”

“Yeah? Well what if I _hadn’t_ moved on, Danny? Did you ever think ta ask me?”

“You... you didn’t say anything...”

“And what the hell was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, Danny, I know you’ve got this great thing goin’ on, but now I want you to give up everything that makes you happy because I didn’t get what I wanted’?” The venom drained from Don’s voice, he turned his head away and uttered a bitter laugh that was almost a sob.

Danny finally loosened his grip on Don’s arm, his hand slipped down and his fingers curled gently around the burned wrist. “How long has he been doing this?” he asked quietly.

“None of your damn business.”

“Of course it is. Don, please, you have to get out of there, you gotta let me help you.”

“I don’t _gotta_ do anything.”

“What? You’re not tellin’ me you’re actually gonna stay with that guy? Don, you can’t...”

“Hey, last time I checked, you didn’t get a say in what I can and can’t do.”

Danny was getting desperate. “Maybe I don’t. But I bet Mac’ll have somethin’ to say about it when he finds out.”

Don’s arm was yanked sharply away as the detective turned on him. “He’s not gonna find out, because you’re not gonna tell him,” he hissed. “No one’s gonna find out.”

“The hell they aren’t,” Danny shot back. “Someone’s gotta make you see sense, and if it’s not me then it’s gonna have to be Mac... or Jo... hell, I’ll go through the entire goddamn lab if I have to.”

Don struck faster than a snake. He grabbed Danny’s shirt and dragged him forward until his face was less than an inch from his own. “They’re not... going... to find out, understand? I swear to God, Danny, if you so much as breathe a word to anyone I’ll... I’ll...” He seemed to be casting about for the most dire threat he could think of. “I’ll get a transfer to another precinct. I’ll never work with you again. You got it?”

Danny was stunned into silence. Don was bluffing, he had to be... didn’t he? 

Slowly, Don released his hold on Danny’s shirt. “No one else is ever going to know anything about this,” he repeated.

“Don... I can’t just...”

“You promise me... you’re not gonna say anything to anyone.” 

“Ok... Ok, I won’t...”

“Give me your word.”

Danny stared at him. Did Don really expect him to keep this quiet? To just get on with his life as if this conversation had never happened? And the next time he walked into the lab with black eyes or split lips, was he supposed to ignore it? He couldn’t do it. There was no way he could keep this a secret. He had to say something to Mac at least, he had to... 

And then what? What if Don meant it when he said that he would leave? He had worked enough domestic violence cases to know that the first thing an abusive partner did was to isolate their victim, to slowly but surely cut them off from anyone who might help them escape their clutches. Don was already about as cut off as he could get. Were he to carry out his threat and transfer to another precinct, working with people he didn’t know, and who didn’t know him, he would be truly alone.

And Danny didn’t know if he could bear the thought of never seeing him again.

“Ok,” he whispered, choking on the words, “I promise.”

Don’s eyes gazed into his, looking for any sign that he might be lying. Danny was beginning to think that he might crumble under the intensity of the stare until, seemingly satisfied, Don stepped away from him. He pulled his sleeve down over the burns, hiding them from view, and walked towards the door of the locker room. For a moment he paused, his back to Danny.

“I mean it, Danny. Anyone finds out, I’m gone. So just forget about all this, Ok? I’ve done my best to stay out of your life... now stay the hell out of mine.”

 

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“There you are.” Jo, sitting in the driver’s seat of the car, held up Danny’s jacket. “You left it on the seat. You took your time, what were you up to in there?”

Danny flopped into the passenger seat. His head was spinning and starting to ache, as if he had the beginnings of a hangover. “Uh, nothin’ much. Got talking to Don, that’s all.”

“Don? How is he? He didn’t look too good yesterday.”

Owen beats him. He hurts him. The thought was so alien, so impossible, that for a moment Danny was almost convinced that he must be thinking about someone else. There was no way... _no way_... that anything like this could be happening to Don.

Jo was there, she was sitting right next to him. She would know what to do. She and Mac, they could both have this situation cleared up in no time...

_Anyone finds out, I’m gone._

“He’s fine,” he said, feeling the tears stabbing at the back of his eyes as he uttered that hateful word. “Think he might be right about the flu though, still looks kinda under the weather.”

“Poor guy,” Jo tutted sympathetically. “Still, Don’s tough, he’ll get over it in no time.”

“Yeah, no time,” Danny echoed. This had to be a bad dream. He hoped he would wake up soon.

 

                                                                 XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Don walked slowly back to his desk and sank into his chair. He was vaguely aware of the icon flashing on his computer screen, informing him that he had an unread email, of the scattered memos that people had left on his desk, the in-tray full of stuff that needed his attention, but it all seemed so far away, as though it were in some unreachable parallel world. He could feel something building in his chest and rising into his throat, a wail of pure, unfettered anguish that threatened to overwhelm him. He clenched his teeth together so tightly that it hurt his jaw, certain that if he allowed it to escape he would never be able to stop screaming.

The burns on his wrist itched. That fucking dream. No one had ever told him that he talked in his sleep.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for taking so long to update, have been stupidly busy. I'll try not to keep you waiting so long next time (although stupidly busy seems to be my default setting at the moment).  
> This next case gets a bit complicated. If it's confusing or difficult to follow, please let me know and I'll try to make it a bit clearer.

June 9th

 

It was hot, unusually so even with summer approaching, and Mac was silently thankful that the body did not appear to have lain here for more than a day. Any longer and the smell would have made the job of processing rather unpleasant. 

“Liver temp puts time of death at somewhere between eight pm and midnight last night, although in this heat that estimate might be a little off.” Hawkes was crouched next to the corpse. “No obvious cause of death. There’s a relatively minor nosebleed, barely enough to even stain the front of his t-shirt. Certainly not enough to kill him. But look at this.” He held up one of the arms to show Mac the deep, purple bruising around the wrist.

“He was tied up?”

“Yes, see? There’s an imprint that looks like rope, and there are fibres embedded in the skin. But this level of bruising is unusual. Even if he’d struggled, this is extreme.”

“What could have caused it?”

“There could be any number of reasons. Hopefully we'll find out more at autopsy.”

Mac looked around the dingy little alley. The vic had been tied, which meant that, in all likelihood, someone else had had a hand in his death. The body lay behind a group of trashcans, not in plain sight but hardly well hidden. “If he was murdered, whoever did it clearly wasn’t all that concerned about him being found.” 

“Or about robbing him.” Hawkes pulled a wad of bills from a pocket of the dead man’s jeans and studied it. “My guess, there’s gotta be at least two hundred dollars here. But there’s no wallet, no credit cards, no I.D.”

“And nothing much to go on. We’ll get his prints and DNA back at the lab, if we’re lucky he’ll be in the system.”

He left Sheldon to continue processing the scene. Once back at the lab he would busy himself with the ins and outs of the case, but right now his mind was elsewhere. Specifically, it was on Danny. His lover had been... well, not quite right for the last couple of weeks. He seemed preoccupied, as if there was something bugging him that he couldn’t shake off. He’d told Mac that it was the case he was working with Jo; apparently the guy they’d pulled in had been in lockup the night of the murder, leaving them at a dead end, but something about his explanation did not ring true with Mac. Their vic was an ex-soldier turned junkie who had been burned to death, a troubled life with a horrific end, but hardly unusual enough for Danny to be taking as personally as he seemed to be. 

And what was going on between him and Don? Their friendship, which had been somewhat strained for a while, now seemed almost at breaking point. Following the latest round of budget cuts, Mac had briefed the team last week; he had been speaking for almost five minutes when he’d realised that neither of the young men were listening. Danny seemed to be trying desperately to catch Don’s eye, while Don had studiously ignored him. Mac had wrapped up after about twenty minutes, at which point Don had promptly disappeared, as if into thin air. Danny had stormed out of the room like a moody teenager, muttering “Fuckin’ pig-headed son of a...” as he stomped past.

“We had a difference of opinion,” he’d explained to Mac later, when the older man had asked. “Just a stupid argument, it’s nothin’ really.” He had remained stubbornly tight-lipped on the subject ever since. Mac had decided not to push it. They were two grown men after all, whatever was going on, they could work it out between themselves.

 

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_Friends with benefits, that’s all it was._ He couldn’t really believe that, could he? The words kept going round in Danny’s head. He’d had no idea Don had taken their break up so hard. He should have stayed. He’d been stupid, he could see it now, yet at the time it had seemed like the right thing to do. He’d thought it unfair to keep stringing the guy along, not when he wasn’t sure...

Sexuality had never been discussed when he was younger, not at home, certainly not at school, and so he had never really been able to put a label on his own feelings. He’d heard the word gay used a few times, mostly with sneering contempt by his school friends when they wanted to insult someone in the worst possible way without really understanding what it meant, but bisexual was a term that was barely used, at least not when he had ever been in earshot. In his young mind, you either liked guys, or you liked girls. So when he had felt that familiar heat in his loins at the sight of a girl in a low cut top or a short skirt, he had assumed that his attraction towards other men had simply been a phase, just as so many members of his family had told him it would be. His few flings with women had petered out after a couple of months. There had been that thing with Lindsay, of course, before she transferred to Washington, but even that had not lasted long, not after she caught him staring at Mac from across the lab. ‘Like a lovesick puppy’ was how she had described it. “You’re a great guy, Danny,” she’d told him as she kissed him goodbye. “Any girl would be lucky to have you. But something tells me that no girl ever will.”

Mac. The man Danny had always looked up to, respected beyond anyone else. He had tried to keep his feelings for him a secret—he was the boss after all, completely out of reach—until the evening he lost his keys and Mac had offered him his couch for the night. They’d eaten dinner together, and afterwards had sat on the couch watching some old movie, chattering away as if this was how they spent every night. And then Danny had kissed him. He wasn’t sure what made him do it, it was just something that, at that moment, he felt he had to do. He’d apologised afterwards, telling Mac how sorry he was, that it would never happen again and could he please, _please_ not fire him? He’d had to stop talking when Mac had leaned over and kissed him back. Surprised was not the word for it; he’d always believed that Mac was straighter than a yardstick.

Which, of course, left Don. He had hooked up with Owen soon afterwards—rich (at least by Danny’s standards), charming Owen. Danny had been happy for him, at least he had tried to be. And if he found himself feeling more than a little jealous... well, he’d simply put it down to not having his old friend to hang out with as often as he used to.

I should have seen it. I should have seen that he was taking him away.

Danny’s computer monitor bleeped at him, jolting him out of his reverie. He opened the box that had appeared on the screen and read the email.

 

Sorry it’s taken so long, our computer picked up a virus, we’ve only just caught up with the backlog.

 

Danny opened the attachment. He frowned, then went in search of Jo, who he found stepping off of the elevator. She was carrying two cups of coffee, one of which she held out to him. “Here, I thought you might need one, you looked like you might fall asleep earlier. One of the hazards of the job, dying of boredom when your case isn’t going anywhere.”

Danny took a slug of his coffee before replying, “Well, I don’t know if this makes it better or worse, but I finally got the results from the lid of the gasoline bottle. Dale Benson’s saliva may have been all over it, but it wasn’t him who opened it. The bite marks on the lid don’t match the impressions we took of his teeth before we released him.”

“So how did we end up with bite marks from one person and saliva from another? Do we know whose teeth they are?”

“Nah, we’re not that lucky. The lid’s too small to get more than a partial imprint from it, not enough to identify someone from their dental records. So we know Benson didn’t do it, but we still have no idea who did, nor how Benson's DNA ended up there.”

Jo sighed and held up her cup. “I have a feeling we’re going to need a lot more coffee.”

 

                                                             XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

“Penny for your thoughts?” Sid was looking at Mac over the top of his glasses.

“The lab, the precinct... they’re like a beehive, hundreds of workers always buzzing around. Compared to that, the morgue seems... almost serene.”

“I’ve always thought so... You do realise, of course, that if this place is a beehive, that would make you... the queen?“ 

Mac smiled, he’d walked right into that one. “What can you tell me about our John Doe, Sid?”

“Well, I can tell you that the nosebleed was just the tip of the iceberg. Cause of death is hemorrhagic shock.”

“He bled to death?” 

“That’s right.”

“There was very little blood on his clothes, and, aside from the bruising Hawkes found, no sign of external trauma.”

“That’s because there _is_ none. But when I opened him up I found massive internal bleeding.”

“What might have caused it?”

“Well, I looked for the usual suspects, cancers, ulcers, etcetera, and found nothing. So I had the stomach contents analysed. Our vic’s last meal consisted of bread, pastrami, and warfarin.”

Mac certainly hadn’t expected that. “Warfarin is an anticoagulant, it’s used to thin the blood and prevent clots from forming in the blood vessels. If too much is taken it can cause spontaneous bleeding. That would also explain the extensive bruising on the wrists where he was tied up. It’s an odd way to kill someone.”

“But certainly effective in this case. But you’re right, if someone wanted him to bleed it would have been far easier just to cut his throat or open a vein in his wrist. Why do it this way?”

“Until we know more,” Mac replied grimly, “your guess is as mine.” 

He could have sworn he heard Sid humming ‘God save the Queen’ as he left the morgue.

He found Hawkes upstairs. The younger man’s eyes were glued to his computer screen, but he turned when Mac entered. “I got the DNA results. Actually, I got two. Our vic’s name is Reid Hudson, he’s in the system for drug dealing, just small time stuff. He spent three years in jail for selling bad coke to two kids.”

“So where’s the second profile come from?”

“I processed the t-shirt the vic was wearing, and found nasal mucus, but when I tested it, the DNA didn’t match Hudson. Instead it came back to this guy.” He tapped the screen. “Lou Garret, busted for drug possession two years ago.”

“Unusual for a drug user to kill his dealer.”

“Well, it gets even more unusual. The tox screen showed that Hudson had ketamine in his system, which wouldn’t be all that surprising, except it was well known that, although he sold drugs, he wasn’t a user.”

“Hmm. I think we need to find Lou Garret.”

“Well, you may want to keep your distance when you find him. The mucus I collected from the t-shirt contained the influenza virus. He has the flu.”

“I’ll be sure to stand well back.”

 

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Lou Garret pushed the picture back across the table towards Mac. “Sorry, I don’t know him.”

“We found your DNA on his clothing.”

The man shrugged. “It’s not as if I spend my entire life indoors. People bump into you on the subway or the sidewalk, my DNA’s probably been further around the city than I have. Look, I’m sorry the guy’s dead, but I can’t help you.”

“Where were you between eight pm and midnight last night?”

“I was at home.”

“Can anyone corroborate that?”

“I live alone.”

Mac gave him a quizzical look. “It must get lonely. Are you sure you didn’t call Reid Hudson, get something to take the edge off?”

Garret raised his chin proudly. “I haven’t touched an illegal substance since I left rehab. I’ve been clean for over a year. I was studying last night, I’m training to be a youth guidance councillor. If your guy was a dealer, he sure wasn’t selling to me.”

Mac could believe it. The man certainly didn’t look like a junkie. In fact, Lou Garret looked suspiciously healthy. “Have you been suffering from the flu recently, Lou?”

Garret looked surprised at the question. “I was, about a month ago.” 

Mac left the interview room with more questions than answers. Influenza generally only survived for about a week inside the body after the symptoms disappeared, if Garret had had the flu a month ago there would be no trace of the virus left in the mucus that Hawkes had found. So what was it doing there?

 

                                                               XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

The clock was showing twenty minutes to midnight, the room was so warm that they had kicked off the covers barely seconds after climbing into bed. 

“You’re awfully quiet.”

It seemed to take Danny a second to realise that he had spoken. “Am I?” 

“Your case still bothering you?“

Danny shook his head. “It’s goin’ nowhere. We got evidence but it’s all pointing in different directions.”

“I know what that’s like.” Mac reached over and stroked his hip. 

“Mmm.”

Mac shifted closer. “Are you Ok? You’re not sick or anything are you?”

Danny’s eyes flickered up to meet his. “Do you ever... get mad at me?” 

Mac was taken aback by the question. “Well... occasionally, I guess. I mean, you do have a habit of leaving your towel on the bathroom floor after you shower...”

“Yeah, but I mean... do I ever piss you off so much that it makes you wanna... hurt me?”

“Danny... why on earth would you think that?” 

“It’s... it’s just somethin’ someone said to me the other day... just made me wonder...”

Mac raised a hand and brushed his thumb over his lover’s cheek. “I love you, Danny. I could never hurt you, you know that don’t you?”

“Are you sure?” Danny was watching his face anxiously. “I mean, like, if I did something really bad, would you still...”

Mac was utterly lost now. “ _Have_ you done something?”

“No, no, I just... I gotta know that you’re not like that.”

“I... I don’t know how I can prove that to you, Danny. I could spend every day telling you that I’d never hurt you, but words are cheap. All I can do is ask you whether or not you trust me enough to believe it.”

Danny lay completely still, his gaze fixed on Mac’s face until the older man felt as though his soul were being examined under a microscope. Then, after what seemed like an eternity, he smiled. 

“I love you too, Mac.”

He snuggled closer and Mac wrapped his arms around him, feeling relieved. “Who’s been putting ideas like that in your head?“

He could have sworn that Danny hesitated for a second before replying, “Aah, it’s no one you know.” He shifted slightly, hooking one leg over Mac’s hip. “Now c’mon, I need some lovin’.” Without waiting for a response he planted his lips on Mac’s, tongue probing insistently at his mouth. Mac responded in kind, pulling his lover closer to kiss him more deeply. He loved the feel of Danny’s skin beneath his fingers, the heat of his body as the younger man practically coiled himself around him. Danny finally broke off the kiss, his face flushed. “God, Mac, you have no idea how much I need this right now.”

“I’d say you’re making it pretty obvious. So... what exactly is it that you need?”

Danny smirked, before turning onto his stomach and raising his hips invitingly. “I need you inside me, babe. I want you to screw my brains out.”

“Well, if you insist...”

 

                                                           XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

June 24th

 

It wasn’t very often that Danny found himself at a crime scene that truly made his stomach turn, but he had to fight down a wave of nausea as he looked at the scene in front of him. The girl had been killed by the impact, there was no doubt about that, the car that had hit her was crumpled in front and had bent the scaffolding pole that she was tied to. Her head hung down, her face obscured by her long red hair. From the waist up she appeared unscathed. The lower half of her body had been almost completely obliterated. The flies had already got to her, they buzzed around in humming black clouds. 

“Do we have any witnesses?” Mac asked grimly.

Don shook his head. “It’s a building site, there’s no one here at night. Foreman went home at six pm yesterday, he found the vic when he showed up for work this morning.”

Mac stepped closer to the corpse, bending down to take a look at her face.

“Whoever killed her left her purse here for us to find.” Jo swatted at the swarming flies as she picked up the black leather bag that had been left on the ground beside the body. She dug around inside it and pulled out a wallet, which she opened. “Well, at least we have I.D. Her name’s...”

“Serena. Her name is Serena.” Mac raised the dead girl’s head gently so that the long hair fell away from her face, and Danny felt a jolt as he recognised her. “She was our waitress, at the restaurant that Danny and I went to on our anniversary,” Mac explained.

Jo looked at the wallet again. “Serena Blake, age nineteen.” She shook her head. “Poor girl. Imagine the terror she must have felt watching that car driving towards her.”

While she and Mac started discussing the car-turned-murder weapon, Danny sidled over to Don. The detective’s eyes were half closed, he looked almost asleep on his feet. “Hey,” Danny murmured quietly, “how’re you doin’?”

“I’m good,” Don replied flatly, not looking at him.

There was a pause. “Look, Don, if you wanna talk, you know you can always...”

“There’s nothin’ to talk about, Danny.” His tone made it clear that the conversation was over.

Danny tried to study him without making it obvious that he was doing so. He could see no signs of abuse on Don, no marks on his skin, but the thick, long sleeved shirt he was wearing in spite of the heat could be hiding a multitude of sins. He longed to rip that shirt off of him, to scour every inch of his body for new bruises, new scars, however small and insignificant they might be. Look at you! he wanted to scream at him, look at what he’s doing to you!

“The car’s airbag was deployed in the crash.” Mac’s voice interrupted his thoughts. “It’s likely whoever was driving left some of their DNA behind. Danny... Danny, are you with us? We need to get the car back to the compound, and we need to get Serena to the morgue. Let’s be careful how we take her down. She didn’t deserve to die like this.”

 

                                                             XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Mac watched the computer screen, fingers idly tapping on the top of his desk. He had spoken to Serena Blake for maybe three minutes at the restaurant, but those three minutes were all it had taken to make her bright smile and cheerful demeanour stick in his mind. Why would anyone want her dead, and in such a gruesome fashion? Sid had confirmed that she had been crushed by the car, but had said that death had probably not come instantly; Serena could have been alive for anything up to an hour until she finally bled out, or until her body succumbed to shock. The M.E had given him something to go on, however, a sample of a brownish substance that he had scraped from under the vic’s fingernails, which had turned out to be dried blood. So Serena had fought back. Mac felt almost proud of her.

A picture flashed up on his screen, and Mac found himself staring into the gaunt, sullen face of a woman. The computer informed him that her name was Joanne Myers, age thirty two. She looked a lot older. It was her blood under Serena’s nails. 

Something about this was bothering him.

Serena’s parents had tearfully informed him that, while she hadn’t been a straight A student, Serena had done well at school, had had a couple of boyfriends but nothing serious, and walked their wheelchair-bound neighbour’s dog every day before work. Even allowing for parental bias, she seemed to have been a very nice girl. So what on earth could connect her to Joanne Myers, who according to the database had prior convictions for drug possession and prostitution? 

And that wasn’t all. There was something else, something niggling at the back of his brain, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. 

He took his phone out of his pocket. “Don? We’ve got a suspect, Joanne Myers. Let’s bring her in.”

 

                                                           XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Don wasn’t really listening. He knew he should be paying more attention, but the monochrome grey of the featureless interview room was making him feel drowsy. Across the table, Joanne Myers was scratching fitfully at her arm. He wished she would stop, it set his teeth on edge. 

“Heroin withdrawal’s a nightmare, huh?” Mac nodded at the multitude of scratches on the woman’s arms. “Or did Serena Blake leave those marks before you killed her?”

“I already told you...” Joanne’s voice was shaking almost as much as her hands. “I ain’t never seen her before. It’s no good showin’ me that goddamn photo again, it ain’t gonna change nothin’.”

“Then how do you explain your blood under Serena’s nails?”

“How the fuck should I know? Isn’t that your job?” Her voice was nasal and whiny, and pierced Don’s head like a drill. He wanted to go and curl up somewhere dark and quiet. 

“You’re right, it is my job. So if you’re not going to cooperate, I’m going to find out anyway.” Mac left a long pause, allowing the silence to build. Joanne was becoming more twitchy by the second. “Where were you between eleven pm and three am last night?”

“I was at a nightclub downtown.”

“Which one?“

“I... I don’t remember.”

“That’s the best you can do?”

“I was drunk, Ok? Don’t remember mucha’ anythin’.”

“Well, it might be in your best interest to start remembering.” There was another pause. “You know, heroin isn’t all that easy to come by in prison. Judging by the way you’re shaking, I’d guess you haven’t had a hit in over twenty four hours. Going cold turkey’s not exactly pleasant. There’s the nausea, the sweats, the stomach cramps... after a couple days it’s muscle spasms, extreme anxiety, you can’t sleep...” 

I know all about that, Don thought vaguely.

“...And of course the constant, relentless cravings. By day five you’d sell your own mother for a single dose...”

If he’d been hoping for a confession, it hadn’t worked. 

There was an ear-splitting screech, and a flurry of movement startled Don out of the torpor into which he had been slowly drifting. The woman who had been sitting on the other side of the table was now up in Mac’s face and seemed to be doing her best to claw his eyes out. It was a few seconds before his brain caught up with his eyes and told him that he really should do something. He hauled himself out of his own chair and grabbed Joanne Myers by the wrists, pulling her off of his boss. The woman was so skinny he could probably have snapped her across his knee like a twig, but she was fuelled by adrenaline and desperation, and he was so exhausted that she almost knocked him off his feet. It took everything he had just to hold on to her, while Mac opened the door and yelled for backup. 

“You lemme outta here!” Joanne was screaming. “I ain’t goin’ to no fuckin’ prison. Lemme go!” She was writhing like an angry snake, and Don was within seconds of losing his grip on her when two more officers burst into the room and took her off his hands. 

Mac put a hand up to his face. There was a deep scratch on his cheek where the woman’s nail had caught him. “Lock her up, I’ll talk to her in a day or two, when she’s feeling a little more rational.”

Joanne’s whole demeanour changed as soon as the words were out of his mouth. “Hey... I’m sorry, I... I wasn’t really tryin’ ta hurt ya... look, if you... if you get me a hit, I’ll tell you anythin’ you wanna know, I swear I will...” She was still babbling as she was dragged out of the room.

Don thought that Mac meant to follow her out, but instead the CSI closed the door and turned towards him. He recognised the expression on his face. It wasn’t good. 

“Do you want to explain what that was all about?”

Don sighed. He’d screwed up, he knew it, but he really didn’t feel up to a lecture right now. “Sorry, Mac, guess she caught me off guard.”

“You guess?” Mac was frowning at him. He hated when he looked at him that way. “A first grade detective knows better than to let his guard down around a suspect, especially one as obviously unstable as that. Next time I’d appreciate it if you stepped in a little sooner, I don’t fancy losing an eye just because you weren’t paying attention. If you’re not on the ball here, then you’re better off out of the room. Is that clear?”

Don nodded, unable to look him in the eye. “Sorry, Mac,” he repeated. 

Mac gave him a long, hard look before leaving the room. 

Don dropped back into his seat, folded his arms on the table top and laid his head on them. Shit, that was way too close. He’d gotten lucky this time, the only threat had come from a woman half his size. If he zoned out like that while confronting some psycho with a gun...

I can’t keep doing this.

_Sure you can. You enjoy it really._

No... No...

_You’d have left him by now if you didn’t, gone crying to your little friend Messer. Pathetic little wimp like you, he’s just dying to make you his own personal charity case._

I can’t leave. Not after what happened last time.

_Oh please. The guy works for a pharmaceutical company, for God’s sake. How long do you think it took him to figure out how many of those pills to take? Just enough to get you to come running back, huh?_

I can’t take that chance.

_Are you really that fucking stupid?_

I don’t know. I don’t know any more.

         

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June 25th 

2.37am

 

He’s doing it again. Why is he staring at me like that? What did I do this time?

 

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“You Ok, baby? You look tired.”

Don, who had been poking at a piece of toast for the last ten minutes without taking a bite, looked up. Owen, already immaculate in his suit and tie, had almost finished his breakfast and was looking across the table at him. Thank you, Captain Obvious, the sarcastic (and sadly now underused) little part of his brain replied. The sane part knew better than to say the words out loud. He settled for nodding sullenly instead.

Owen leaned his elbows on the table. “Look, I know you haven’t said anything, maybe because you don’t want me to worry, but I know you haven’t been sleeping well lately. Is there something wrong?”

Don rubbed his eyes. Why was Owen even asking? How could he not know? He had to say something. Normally he would have denied that there was any problem, but after what happened in that interview room yesterday, after the way Mac had looked at him... “Owen... please, you gotta stop this. I don’t know what I’ve done to make you mad at me, whatever it is I’m sorry, but please...I need to sleep.”

Owen gave him a confused little frown. “What are you talking about, baby?”

“I can’t concentrate at work. I’m gonna end up making a mistake or... or freezing up at the wrong moment. Someone could end up getting hurt because of me. You gotta stop now, Ok?”

Owen was giving him the kind of patient look that one might give a small child who hasn't yet mastered the art of speech. “You’re going to have to slow down and explain this to me properly, Ok baby? I don’t understand what you’re saying.”

How the hell could he not understand? “You. You won’t... you keep waking me up. I don’t know why, but I just... I just wanna sleep. Please.”

“Honey, I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t wake you up. I think you must have been dreaming.”

“No.” He felt really confused now. “No, you... you wake me up, and you keep staring at me and you won’t talk and... you just lie there watchin’ me... it’s freakin’ me out!”

Owen was out of his chair and around the table in seconds. Don flinched instinctively, half expecting a blow, and was almost more startled when his partner knelt by his chair and placed his hands on his shoulders, his face a picture of concern. “Baby, calm down, Ok? I don’t know what’s bothering you, but you haven’t slept properly in ages. I think...” He took a deep breath, as if he were about to broach a difficult subject. “I think... maybe you ought to go see a doctor. You haven’t been yourself for a while now; you’re tired, you’re irritable, and I hate to say it, but you’ve been acting a little strange just lately. Listen, I know an excellent doctor. I met Dr Channing through work, he’s a brilliant psychiatrist. You should go have a talk with him some time, I think he might really be able to help...” 

“A psychiatrist..? I'm not fucking crazy!”

“I didn’t say that,” Owen replied gently. “But think about it. You’re a cop. You spend hours on end, day and night, surrounded by death and violence and the worst kind of people. That sort of thing’s bound to take its toll on you eventually. You give so much of yourself to others... maybe it’s time to take care of yourself now.”

It actually sounded reasonable when he said it like that.

“I’m not crazy...” he said again.

_Who are you trying to convince?_

“I know you’re not. But Don, you’re just about burned out. I’ve seen it before. People in high-pressure jobs, working long hours, never taking a break, never stopping, until eventually they run themselves into the ground and end up having a complete mental breakdown. I don’t want that for you, baby.” Owen’s hand had slipped around to his back, his thumb stroking the nape of his neck. “Look, I can get an appointment with Channing within a week. Would you go, just once? For me?”

He couldn’t think of anything to say. Was he really imagining all this? Owen pulled him close and kissed him softly.

“I only want what’s best for you, baby, Ok? I only want what’s best for you.”

 

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Danny fell into step beside Mac as they walked down the corridor. “Any idea what this is about?”

Mac shrugged. “No idea. Guess we’ll just have to go find out.”

Jo looked up as she pushed the button for the elevator. “Hey. I don’t suppose you happened to get a rather cryptic message from Sid, did you?”

“Yeah,“ Mac replied. “’Step into my parlour, have something interesting to show you’.”

They stepped out of the elevator and walked into the morgue, where Hawkes and Adam were already standing either side of Sid next to the stainless steel table. The body on top of it was covered with a white cloth.

Mac looked at the M.E. “You know, Sid, there’s nothing wrong with just telling us that you need to speak to us.”

Sid’s eyebrows raised behind his glasses. “I thought I did say that.”

Hawkes grinned. “You’re fighting a losing battle there, Mac. The day Sid gets straight to the point will be the day Hell freezes over.”

“Actually, according to Dante’s Inferno, at the very centre of Hell there is a great lake of ice, in which Lucifer himself is forever trapped, condemned to an eternity without God’s warmth and light, with nothing to do but chew on Judas Iscariot’s head...”

“Getting a little off topic here, Sid.”

“Oh, ah... right... well, I suppose you’re wondering why I asked you all down here?”

“We’re all intrigued, Sid,” Jo replied.

“Well, I was looking at some of my recent case notes when I noticed something. Mac, Sheldon, you had a case a couple of weeks ago, a Reid Hudson?”

“That’s right. We don’t seem to be getting very far with that one,” Mac said.

“Hmm. And Jo, you and Danny were investigating the death of Stephen Riggs.”

“Yep,” Jo confirmed. 

“And we’ve hit a complete dead end,” Danny added.

“So I saw. I also saw that the tox reports in both cases came back positive for ketamine, it that right?”

Mac looked at Jo, who nodded. “Right,” she said, “But it’s not exactly surprising. Stephen Riggs was a drug user.”

“And Reid Hudson was a dealer,” Hawkes supplied.

“I know. But as I was reading, I was reminded of another case that came through my door a couple of months ago.” Sid picked up several sheets of paper, held together by a paperclip. “A young lady named Mariko Takashima. She also had ketamine in her system. According to the case notes, unlike Messrs Riggs and Hudson, Mariko had never touched drugs in her life.”

“So we have three cases in the last few months in which the victims all had one particular drug in their system. Ketamine use isn’t exactly rife in the city, but it’s not so unusual that these cases would raise any eyebrows.” Mac raised one of his own. “There’s something else you’re not telling us, isn’t there?”

Sid looked please with himself. “You’re right, three vics showing signs of ketamine use in as many months isn’t uncommon. The anomalies that I noticed in each case, however, are definitely unusual.”

“Anomalies?”

“Yes. Mariko’s autopsy revealed that she died from envenomation, tox showed temple viper venom in her system. Her death was ruled to be accidental. She worked in a pet store that specialised in exotic animals, so it was assumed that she had been bitten whilst handling one of the snakes. But when I took a second look at the autopsy photos, I saw this.” He held out the papers. “What do you see there?”

They all leaned in to look at the picture.

“There’s only one puncture wound,” Danny said after a moment. “Snake bites usually leave two.”

“Correct, although it is possible for a bite to leave only one mark, if the snake is missing a fang or if it strikes at an awkward angle. The really odd thing is that the puncture wound in the vic’s skin is considerably smaller than the fang of a temple viper. It looks almost as if it was made by a large hypodermic needle.”

“You’re saying that Mariko was deliberately injected with snake venom?“ Jo asked.

“I think she was.”

“So what does that have to do with Stephen Riggs and Reid Hudson?” 

Sid flipped over a couple of sheets of paper. “You found saliva on a bottle lid at the Riggs crime scene, yes?”

“Yeah,” Danny said, “But the bite marks on the lid didn’t match the person the saliva belonged to.”

“Keep that thought in mind.” Sid turned to Mac. “And you found nasal mucus on Reid Hudson’s body that contained the influenza virus?”

Mac nodded, seeing where this was going. “The anomaly being that when we picked up Lou Garret, who the mucus belonged to, he didn’t have the flu.”

Sid spread his hands, inviting him to continue.

Mac was silent for a moment, thinking. “So we have snake venom without a bite, saliva without matching tooth marks, and the influenza virus with a perfectly healthy suspect. And in all three cases the victim had ketamine in their system. What’re the odds?”

“Pretty slim, I’d say,” Jo said.

“Uh... excuse me...” Five pairs of eyes turned towards Adam. “Uh, yeah... I haven’t been working any of these cases. What do you need me down here for?”

“Because I think your services may be required to deal with the fourth victim,” Sid replied.

“Fourth victim?” Jo looked surprised.

Sid reached down and pulled back the sheet that covered the body on the table in front of him. 

Mac felt his heart sink. “Serena?”

“I’m afraid so.” Sid lifted the dead girl’s hand. “The substance I scraped from under Serena’s nails turned out to be blood. What’s missing from this picture?” No one answered. “When a vic scratches their attacker, we usually find blood...”

“And skin.” A light bulb seemed to switch on in Mac’s head. “If Serena had scratched Joanne Myers, she would have had skin under her nails. There were no skin cells in the sample you gave me, only blood. I knew I was missing something, I just couldn’t figure out what. The tox report hasn’t come back yet.”

Sid looked a little sheepish. “Actually... well, I thought that this case seemed rather similar to the others, so I requested that the tox report came straight to me. I hope that’s OK..?”

Mac nodded. “And..?”

“Serena had ketamine in her system.”

“So, you’re saying these cases are connected?” Hawkes frowned. “It’s a pretty dubious connection.”

“Maybe, but this goes way beyond the realms of pure coincidence.” Mac was deep in thought. “If these four deaths are connected in some way, we need to find out what the link is before it becomes five.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE apologies for taking so long to update. Moving house, redecorating and illness mean I've been lucky to get time to write more than a couple of lines a night. To those who've stuck with it this long, thanks so much, I know it's taking forever but this story will get finished, promise.
> 
> Before anyone points it out, I know that there are better ways of doing the lipstick test that appears in this chapter, but, like Jo, I just can't resist tormenting Adam. Just a little bit.

June 26th

 

It seemed, Mac reflected, that a great deal of his job involved standing in small, dark offices, doing nothing but stare at the walls. Right now, the wall of this particular small, dark office had a number of pictures pinned to it; Mariko Takashima, Stephen Riggs, Reid Hudson and Serena Blake all looked down at him, each silently asking why this had happened to them, and, more importantly, what was he going to do about it? And right now, he had no idea.

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Jo murmured. “We stand here looking at them like we expect them to talk to us or something.” 

“They’re talking,” Mac replied. “We just have to make sure we’re listening.”

“Well, I wish they’d speak up a little.” Jo put her head on one side. “I don’t know, Mac. If there's a connection here, I’m not seeing it. How sure are we that there even _is_ a connection? I mean, what if we’re just so determined to solve these cases that we’ve convinced ourselves to look for something that isn’t even there?” 

“I know there’s nothing concrete, but my gut’s telling me that Sid’s right. Four victims, each with an anomaly in the evidence collected from them, and all with the same sedative drug in their system... it’s too much to put it down to providence. One or two, maybe, but four...”

“I get what you’re saying, Mac, but... well, this isn’t exactly typical serial killer behaviour. Most serial killers target a specific victim type; people of the same sex, or who have a similar skin colour or hair colour... None of our victims are anything like each other. Stephen Riggs is black, Reid Hudson and Serena Blake are white, Mariko’s parents emigrated from Japan, they had different jobs, different backgrounds... And then the murders themselves are completely different. Usually a serial killer picks his method and sticks to it.”

“Perhaps it’s something else. A gang initiation or something.”

Jo gave him a long look. “But you don’t believe that.”

“I’ll believe what the evidence tells me. Whatever that may be.” His eyes fell on the picture of Serena again. “If this is the work of one person, whoever it is is doing their best to throw us off the scent. We have DNA evidence from three different suspects, all of whom deny any knowledge of the murders.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about. It would be almost impossible for anyone to plant that kind of evidence. Hair and nail clippings are one thing, but how the heck do you get hold of someone’s saliva, someone’s blood? They’re not exactly the kind of thing you find in the trash. I just can’t help feeling that we’re reading too much into this.”

The door opened, and Adam breezed in. As usual, he had begun talking before he even entered the room. “I have just sat through, like, five hours of security camera footage and I gotta tell ya, I am seriously considering asking for better health insurance. I’m gonna have cataracts by the time I’m fifty. And don’t get me started on those goddamn office chairs, I mean I’ve been sitting there all morning, I gotta have bruises the size of dinner plates on my...”

Mac gave him The Look (the one that he reserved solely for Adam, and which he used so often it now had capital letters) and Adam trailed off.

“Uh... yeah... sorry... So, anyway, I uh, I looked through security footage from every nightclub within two miles of Joanne Myers’ address. I’ve got her entering a club called Euphoria at eleven forty five. Half an hour later she leaves with a man. Then at one fifteen she’s at another club, Bounce, which she leaves at two o’clock with another man. Security at both joints say she’s a frequent visitor, she goes there to pick up guys. In fact, they usually end up kicking her out because she keeps harassing their male patrons.”

“Joanne’s a known prostitute. By the look of it, she was pretty busy the night Serena was killed.” Mac glanced at Jo. “We have three suspects, two of whom now have pretty solid alibis. This case is looking stranger by the minute.”

“Well, I can’t deny that.” Jo sighed, conceding the point. “Ok, say this is all down to one person, or at least one group of people. How have they been pulling it off?”

“They’re not,” Mac replied grimly. “There’s a connection somewhere, we just have to find it. We’re going to go back over everything we’ve got, double check all the evidence. We still have to process the car that was used to kill Serena. There has to be something. No one commits four murders without making a mistake.”

 

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Don had to stifle a yawn as he listened, trying to bully his brain into taking in everything the doctor was saying. When Owen had said that he could get an appointment with this Channing guy within the week, he hadn’t thought he’d meant the very next day. His partner must have pulled quite a few strings. 

Channing, a long, thin man with too much gel in his hair, leaned back in his chair and crossed his spindly legs. He put Don in mind of a large spider, if a spider could hold a clipboard and pen. “So, Don, Owen tells me you’ve been having trouble sleeping. How long has that been going on?” 

Of course he would have found that out from Owen. His partner had spent a good twenty minutes on the phone to the doctor the night before, and another ten when they had got to his office. Aside from a brief hello, Don had barely spoken a word until now. “Uh, a couple months, I guess.”

Channing nodded sagely. “Mm hmm. And when you find yourself unable to sleep, what do you think about? What goes through your mind? Is there one particular thing you find yourself focusing on, or are there a number of different scenarios that seem to just go round inside your head without ever resolving themselves?”

Don wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t keep going the way he was, but he couldn’t just come right out and say it—that he lay awake at night because he was terrified of the man who slept beside him. It sounded pathetic, even in his own mind. “I dunno... this an’ that.”

“Now, Don...” Channing flashed him an infuriatingly patient smile. “I understand it can be difficult to talk about your personal life to a complete stranger, but trust me, you’ll feel a whole lot better if you just open up to me. Look, I get it, I mean we men are always expected to be strong, silent, unemotional—but sometimes that mindset is simply not sustainable. We can keep it bottled up all we like, but eventually it will spill over. Now, this...” He gestured around the office, “...is a safe space. Whatever you say in here, whatever thoughts or feelings you may divulge to me, none of it leaves this room. There’s no judgement here, you can talk to me about whatever you want. So tell me, what’s on your mind?”

There was a smug tone in Channing’s voice, but the rhythm with which he spoke was almost hypnotic. In spite of how patronising he found the man, perhaps, just perhaps, he might have found an ally, someone who could make his hell a little more bearable. “It’s not that there’s anything wrong, exactly...”

_You’ve become a really good liar, haven’t you?_

“It’s... well, my job keeps me up a lot anyway, there’s a lot of late nights involved, you know. And then Owen... I don’t know if it’s, like, a practical joke or somethin’, but he... keeps waking me up. I’ve asked him not to, but I don’t think he realises how much it’s getting to me. Look, you know him, if you could talk to him...”

The doctor tapped his lower lip with his pen. “Hmm, yes, Owen mentioned this. You know, Don, it’s not uncommon, when we’re under pressure and deprived of sleep, to begin imagining that the person closest to us is, in some way, playing tricks on us, maybe even trying to hurt us in some way.”

“What? No, I’m not imagining anyth...”

“Don, believe me, I’m not trying to invalidate what you’re feeling. I know that, to you, it all seems very real...”

Don stared at him in disbelief. “You’re sayin’ I’m nuts?”

“I’m not saying anything like that. But it’s surprising what tiredness and stress can do to our minds. You mustn’t blame yourself for feeling that way. Did you know that sleep deprivation is a recognised form of torture?”

Don’t I know it, he thought.

“So if you haven’t slept properly in...” Channing consulted his notes, “...about two months, it’s not surprising that it’s having an effect on your mental state. Don’t worry, it’s something we can work on.” Don opened his mouth to protest, but the doctor didn’t seem to notice. “Now, Owen tells me you’re an NYPD detective. That must be an incredibly demanding job. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Don was caught off guard by the sudden change of subject. “It’s, uh, it’s Ok, I guess...”

“Just Ok?” 

“No, that’s not what I... it’s a great job, it’s all I ever wanted to do.”

“Of course, but it must be pretty stressful at times. Most people react with horror when they switch on the TV or open a newspaper and hear about the latest rape or homicide; having to live it every day, as you do, that must eventually have an impact on you, no matter how tough you are.”

“Well, sure it does, there’s something wrong with you if it doesn’t, but that’s not what...”

“Owen tells me you’re working on a particularly frustrating case right now. The pressure to get results with very little evidence, coupled with the dangerous nature of the job... it’s no wonder you’re not feeling all that great at the moment.”

Don gave up, Channing clearly wasn’t listening to a word he was saying. Given that he seemed to preface his every remark with the words ‘Owen tells me’, the doctor obviously believed he already had all the information he needed. 

Channing looked down at his clipboard again. “I would suggest that you take some time off. Not just a day or two, but at least a few weeks. Relax, do what you enjoy doing, forget about being detective Flack for a while and get back to being just plain old Don. I think you’ll feel a lot better for it.”

He felt as though the psychiatrist had thrown a bucket of ice water over him. There was no way he could take time off. He had to keep working, he _had_ to. Plain old Don was long gone, detective Flack was all he had left. 

And being off work meant more time at home. With Owen.

“I... I can’t... I mean, we’ve got this case, and...”

“Now, Don, you really must try to take your mind off the job for a moment. I know you want to be out there doing your bit and all, but you have got to start focusing on yourself now. After all, you’re no good to your colleagues, or the city, if you’re burned out, am I right?”

He was ready to go on the defensive, to tell the doctor that he could do his job just fine, thanks very much, but then he remembered the way Mac had looked at him a couple of days ago, after Joanne Myers had attacked him in the interview room, that expression of anger and disappointment... and hurt. “I... I guess not,” he murmured.

“Right. So, I’ll have a little chat with Owen when we’re done here, it’ll be his job to make sure you get plenty of rest and TLC. And don’t worry about work, I’m sure they can manage without you for a while.”

They’ll manage, Don thought, as Channing started to babble on about another subject. I’m just not sure if I will.

                                                           

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June 27th

 

The sound of the two voices, one cheerful, one raised in stuttering protest, pulled Mac up short as he walked down the corridor. He looked through the glass into the office and did a slight double take, unsure if he was really seeing what he thought he was. Jo, glancing up and, seeing him staring, beckoned him in. 

He stopped in the doorway, wary of getting any closer. “I’m afraid to ask...”

“What? You don’t think he looks fabulous?” Jo raised her hand and applied another coat of lipstick to Adam’s lower lip, then stood back, looking at him critically. “Hmm, no, I don’t think that’s right.” She picked up a tissue and started to wipe off the lipstick. 

Mac risked a few steps into the room. He raised an eyebrow at Adam. “So, you’re going for the perfect pout?”

“Hey, this was sooooooo not my idea. She just caught me and dragged me in here. Seriously, boss, you gotta get me outta here.” Adam looked pleadingly at him.

Mac pretended to consider it, then looked back at Jo. “So are you going to explain exactly what you _are_ doing? ‘Cause I could really use some context here.”

By way of reply, Jo turned and held up a large piece of white fabric, which had been lying on the desk beside her. “The airbag from the car that killed Serena. Take a look.”

Mac studied the material. There was a small stain on its surface.

“Makeup,” Jo explained. “Specifically, lipstick. I took a sample from the smudge on the airbag. It’s made by a French company, Auclair, from their La Belle Madame line. It’s only available online in America. I’m trying to narrow down the shade. It’s far too light for someone with dark or olive skin, and since Adam was the palest person I could find, I commandeered him as my test subject. Unless you’d care to volunteer, of course?”

Mac held up his hands in defence. “I think Adam’s doing just fine.”

“Shame, they do a nice coral tone that would really suit you.” She took Adam, who had been trying to sneak away, by the wrist and pulled him back round to face her. “Here, let’s try this one.” She slicked on a coat of the lipstick, looked down at the airbag, then back again. “Nope, too pink. It’d suit Don’s colouring.”

An image of Don’s lips, accentuated by that pale pink colour, popped into Mac’s head, and he felt himself blushing. “Warm in here,” he muttered.

“It is, huh?” Luckily for him, Jo was selecting another tube of lipstick and didn’t seem to have noticed. “Ever notice how we get busier during a heatwave? Hot weather seems to bring out the worst in people. That’s it! That’s the one.”

Mac took as close a look at Adam’s lips as he dared, feeling a little weird. “Are you sure?” He wasn’t going to admit it, but they’d all looked pretty much the same to him.

“Positive. ‘Porcelain Blush’. So our killer, if there is just one, is a woman with pale skin.”

“Hey, some guys like to wear makeup too.” Adam’s eyes widened as they stared at him. “That is to say, some do... not me, obviously... but I know a few... uh... I’m gonna stop talking now.”

“True, but a man wearing makeup would be likely to draw attention to himself, and in my experience most murderers like to keep a low profile. Besides, the DNA collected from the airbag came back as female. Unfortunately, no hits in CODIS.”

“Did you get anything else from the car?“ Mac asked.

“I’m afraid not. No prints on the wheel or anywhere else, the killer probably wore gloves. The car belonged to Serena’s mother, Serena had borrowed it the night she was killed.” Jo held up the lipstick. “At the moment this is all we have to go on.”

“Uh, Jo, if that’s everything, do you mind if I...” Adam pointed towards the door.

“Sure, thanks Adam.” Jo looked after him as he left the office. “Do you think I should have reminded him to wipe the lipstick off?”

“I’m sure someone will let him know soon enough.”

From out in the corridor came the sound of sniggering.

 

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Danny ducked into the tiny, dim kitchen. The house had obviously been abandoned some time ago; a broken table lay upturned by the doorway, while rusty pans and shattered plates littered the floor and worktops. The glass in the window was covered in years worth of grime, allowing hardly any light to filter through. His foot struck something on the floor and it skittered off into the dark recesses of the little room.

“Sorry it’s so dark in here, the power’s off,” an unfamiliar voice called. He looked up to see a small man picking his way across the kitchen towards him. The man stopped in front of him and held out a hand. “You’re the CSI, huh? I’m detective Garcia.”

Danny returned the handshake absently. “Detective Messer. Where’s, uh, where’s Flack?”

Garcia shrugged. “Called in sick this morning. Chief says he’ll be out for a while, takin’ some personal time or something. So you got me instead. Hope I’ll do.”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Called in sick? Shit. What did that mean? Had that bastard done something to him? Was he hurt? He was aware that Garcia was staring at him, and he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. “So, uh, what’ve we got here?”

Garcia waved a hand towards the far end of the room, where two officers were rigging up spotlights to illuminate the crime scene. “Seems we’ve got ourselves some sort of do-it-yourself execution. Someone wired our vic up to the mains and turned on the juice.”

It was a rather blunt way of putting it, but it was certainly accurate, Danny decided. The dead man was tied to what could only be described as a crude electric chair. There were lengths of wire wound around his wrists and neck, the killer had even gone so far as to drive the loose ends into his flesh. The other ends had been forced into the power outlet on the wall. 

“This place has been empty for years,” Garcia supplied, “so our murderer hooked up to the neighbour’s power supply. She went to investigate when her electricity shorted out and found this guy. Poor woman was still shaking when I questioned her.”

“She give us anything?”

“Nope, but the killer did.” Garcia pointed at an object on one of the grubby worktops. “The vic’s passport. His name’s Tomasz Krol, emigrated from Poland five years ago.”

Danny frowned. “His passport was just left here in plain sight?”

“Not only that, whoever put it there even cleared away some of the trash from the counter before they put it down. It's like someone wanted it found.”

Why did that sound familiar? He wouldn’t know until he processed the scene, but there was something he had to do first. He had to know... “Ok, cool. Look, uh, I’m just gonna step outside for a moment. Try to leave everything the way it is, I’ll be right back.”

Danny walked out into the overgrown front yard, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he went. He found a number, hit the call button, and listened to the shrill ringing, which seemed to go forever.

‘This is Don Flack. I can’t get to the phone right now. Please leave a message.’

Damn! “Uh, hey Don, it’s me. I heard you were takin’ some time off, and uh... Look, I... I just wanted to say that, y’know, I’m here if you need anythin’. Listen, could you gimme a call when you get this? I just... I gotta know you’re Ok, alright? So uh, yeah, call me when you can. I’ll... see you around.”

 

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Jo leaned back in the chair, trying to get comfortable. She had given in to the sweltering heat and put on a skirt that morning, and she was regretting it; the backs of her legs were sticking to the blue, faux leather upholstery. Hospital waiting rooms were not among her favourite places. Time seemed to run slower, and there was always a sort of suppressed hush over everything, as if everyone in the room was afraid to speak above a whisper. The people around her were all studiously minding their own business, heads buried in magazines or faking interest in the posters on the walls. 

There was a young girl sitting opposite. She was staring down at her hands, her fingers twisting together nervously. She couldn’t have been more than fifteen years old, and looked so like her daughter Ellie that Jo felt a little tug in her chest as she looked at her. Slowly peeling her legs away from the chair, she got up and walked across the room to sit down next to the girl. “These places are always so boring, huh?” she said cheerfully. “They won’t even let you play games on your phone.”

The girl cast her a quick sideways glance and shook her head almost imperceptibly. 

Jo gave her a sympathetic smile. “Not too keen on hospitals?”

The girl shook her head again.

“Hey, I’m sure you’ll be fine.” Jo glanced around. “You here with your mom?”

“Nah, she’s at work.” The girl’s voice was so quiet that Jo could barely hear it. 

“She couldn’t get time off to come with you?”

“It’s Ok, I’m fine on my own.”

“You sure, honey?”

“Uh huh.” 

The door of the doctor’s office opened. A woman stepped out and scanned the occupants of the waiting room critically, eyes finally coming to rest on Jo. “Detective Danville?”

Jo stood up and held out a hand. “Yes. You must be Dr Palmgren.”

The doctor took her hand and gave it a perfunctory shake. “Sorry to have kept you waiting. If you’d like to step into my office, we can speak a little more privately.” She had a rather strong accent, Swedish, Jo thought.

The chair in the office didn’t look any more comfortable than the ones in the waiting room, so Jo elected to remain standing. “I’m sorry to bother you at work. We’re investigating a homicide, and I was hoping you might be able to answer a few questions.”

“Well, I’ll do my best, detective, but I’m not sure that I’ll be much help. My job is to help people stay alive, after that they go to the coroner.”

“A man named Stephen Riggs was brought to this hospital two months ago after a drug overdose. You treated him.”

The woman walked over to her desk and started to shuffle some papers. She reminded Jo of her old kindergarten teacher; white-blonde hair pulled into a severe knot at the back of her head, eyes peering beadily through her wire rimmed glasses. The expression on her face made it clear that she felt she had better things to do. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you about doctor/patient confidentiality, Ms Danville.”

“That shouldn’t be a problem in this case. Stephen Riggs was murdered a few weeks ago.”

Dr Palmgren looked up, momentarily surprised. It didn’t last long, though. “Poor man. But it’s not exactly shocking news. From what I remember, Mr Riggs was a drug addict. Once someone like that falls in with the wrong people they don’t tend to last long. I’m still not sure how you think I might be able to help you, detective.”

“Was there anything unusual about his case? Anything that might have indicated that his overdose was anything other than self inflicted?”

“You’re saying it may have been a murder attempt?”

“I’m not suggesting anything. I’m just trying to cover all my bases here.”

The doctor thought in silence for a moment, then shook her head. “I’m sorry, detective, if there were unusual circumstances I really don’t remember them. If you’d come to me a few weeks ago I might have been a little more helpful.”

“Stephen’s brother only remembered the incident yesterday. It’s Ok, it was a long shot. Thanks for your help, doctor.” Jo paused with her hand on the door handle. “By the way, there’s a little girl in the waiting room, she looks kinda nervous. Take it easy with her, Ok?”

 

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June 28th

 

Don rolled over and blinked in the direction of the clock. He experienced a moment of panic upon seeing that it was almost ten thirty, before remembering that he didn’t have to work today. He was supposed to be resting, doctor’s orders. Doctor’s... and Owen’s. 

He’d got up yesterday morning to find that Owen, about to leave for the office, had already called the precinct and spoken to the chief. “He says it’s about time you had some time off,” he’d told Don on his way out of the door. “He’s been worried about you too. He says to make sure you get some rest.” Which was easier said than done. He’d been on edge all day. He should have called Mac and told him that he would not be at work, but he couldn’t bring himself to pick up the phone. It was a cop-out, he knew, but after his total fuck up with Joanne Myers the other day he thought that he was probably the last person Mac would want to speak to. Word would get back to him eventually. Danny had called four times. Don hadn’t responded to his pleas to call him back. What the hell was he supposed to say to him? He’d mooched around the apartment, trying to find something to do with himself, growing more and more apprehensive as six pm drew near, when he knew that Owen would be returning. Luckily for him, his partner had come home in a good mood, and Don had finally allowed himself to relax a little. Not completely, though. No matter how genial Owen seemed to be, he never felt safe enough to let his guard down altogether.

His stomach growled at him, his body telling him it was time to eat, even though he didn’t feel particularly hungry. He stretched, yawned, and reluctantly dragged himself out of bed. Pulling on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt, he wandered through to the living room, and stopped in the doorway. 

Owen was sitting on the couch reading a magazine. He looked up, lips breaking into a beaming smile when he saw Don. “Hey, there you are. I let you sleep in, I hope that’s OK, you looked so peaceful I didn’t want to wake you. Now you’re up I’ll get you some breakfast.” He hauled himself up off of the couch.

“You’re not at work,” Don said, feeling a little dumb at stating the obvious.

Owen beckoned him over and planted a kiss on his forehead. “I thought I’d work from home today. I don’t have any meetings scheduled, and everything else can be done over the phone. I thought it might do both of us good to spend a little more time together. In fact, I wanted to talk to you about that...”

A familiar ringing sound interrupted the conversation. Don looked around, confused, and spotted his phone on the coffee table. He could have sworn he’d put it down by the bed last night, how had it ended up in here? Maybe he really was losing it. He picked up the phone.

Owen was watching him. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” he asked.

“It’s just Danny,” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “Probably nothing important.”

“Ah, yes, your friend from work.” There was a disturbing emphasis on the word ‘friend’. “He’s been calling you a lot the last couple of days.”

So that was how his phone had gotten in here. Owen was checking his calls. “Probably wondering why I’m not at work.”

“You haven’t told him? Poor guy’s probably worried about you. Not really fair to leave him hanging, is it.”

He felt instantly wary. Owen usually got twitchy at the mere mention of Danny’s name, why would he be so concerned about him now? “You think I should answer?”

“Of course. You want him to know you’re Ok, right?” Owen smiled, a hard glint in his grey eyes. “So tell him. He’s going to keep calling till you answer anyway.”

Tell him. Make him believe everything's Ok. Make him go away. Don took a deep breath and tapped the answer button. “Hey Danny.”

There was an audible sigh of relief. “Don? Man, I’ve called you like six times. That guy Garcia said you’d called in sick, and you weren’t answering your phone... Are you Ok?”

“Sure,” Don replied, hoping that his upbeat tone sounded genuine, “I’m fine. Guess everything just got on top’a me, that’s all. I feel better already.”

“Don...” It was clear from Danny’s tone that he didn’t believe a word. “Has he hurt you?”

“No...” After all, it wasn’t a lie, Owen hadn’t touched him, but he had to tread carefully. If Owen found out that Danny knew... The big man was watching him, that shark-like smile still spread across his face. “No, really, I’m good. I just need a bit of down time, y’know?”

“Don’t give me that bullshit. This is something to do with him, I know it!”

If Danny’s voice got any louder Owen might hear it. He could keep denying that there was anything wrong, but there was no way Danny was going to buy it. “Ok,” he conceded, praying he wasn’t giving himself away, “Ok, it is, but I promise, Danny, I really am fine, honest.”

Danny’s disbelief practically radiated through the phone. “You’re tellin’ me the truth?”

“Yeah.”

“You’re not hurt?“

“Not at all.”

“Then what’s he done?” 

What could he say? How could he satisfy Danny without raising Owen’s suspicions. “It’s really no big deal. Look, if it makes you feel any better, I saw a doctor; he says it’s just stress.”

“You saw a doctor?” The tension in Danny’s voice seemed to ease a little. “You actually saw a doctor, in person? Not, like, on the phone or anything?”

Don almost smiled. No matter how mellow his friend might have gotten since hooking up with Mac, he had lost none of his tenacity. “Yeah, in person. He just thinks I need some time off to... y’know, recuperate or whatever. I’ll be back at work in a couple weeks.”

“Ok. Look, you want me to stop by sometime, after work perhaps..?”

“No,” he said, a little too quickly, “No, it’s Ok, you’re busy with your case. How’s that goin’ by the way?”

“Don’t try an’ change the subject... Alright, if you’re really Ok... just keep in touch, yeah?”

“Will do.”

“Donnie... take care of yourself, alright?”

The tenderness in the words made him long for Danny, for someone whose every word did not carry a threat, whose touch didn’t hurt. “Sure, I will.” He hoped to God that Owen hadn’t heard the tremor in his voice.

Danny hung up. Don felt suddenly lost.

Owen put an arm around his shoulders. “There, don’t you feel better now? I don’t know why you didn’t answer the first time he called. Still, you are supposed to be resting, so what do you say we turn this off for a while?” He took the phone from Don’s hand, switched it off, and slipped it into his own pocket. “You’re meant to be taking a break from work, after all. Which reminds me...” 

He stepped back and sat down on the couch again, patting the seat next to him. Don complied, sitting as far as he could from Owen without making it obvious. Something was wrong, he could feel it. It wasn’t that Owen was never solicitous towards him, but usually it came after a bout of violence, when the man felt he had something to make up for. He had to be playing an angle, but Don couldn’t figure out what it might be.

_Why are you even wondering? Just keep your mouth shut and go along with it, like you always do. Or don’t. It’s been almost a month since he last smacked you around... you’ve got to be missing it by now._

“So, I was thinking... well, just hear me out. I know it’s hard to admit, but... well, we’ve been having a few problems lately, haven’t we?”

Well ain’t that the understatement of the century? Don thought, although he did, indeed, keep his mouth shut.

“I don’t want to assign blame on either side here, but the truth is, we’ve lost touch with each other, and I can’t help thinking that a lot of it comes down to work. Now, I know I can be a bit of a workaholic sometimes, a few too many late evenings at the office and all that. But you... you work so hard, and sometimes it seems like I never see you. I wake up in the morning and you’ve already left, I get back from work and you still aren’t home... Remember the office Christmas party last year? We’d barely been there an hour before you were called out to a case.”

Don remembered. Owen had started drinking the second they arrived, growing steadily louder and more belligerent as the evening went on. He had been quietly grateful when the call had come in and given him a chance to escape.

“We hardly ever spend any time together, just you and me,” Owen continued. “I’ve been looking for a solution, and I think I’ve come up with something that might work. I’ve looked at the numbers, and I think that, if we cut down on a few things, we could get by pretty comfortably on just one salary.”

_And there it is._

“Now, obviously, since I earn the higher wage, it makes sense for me to be the one to keep working. But just think, you’d have so much more free time. I could work from home two or three days a week. We could spend some real, quality time together, have lunch together, go to the theatre, the movies... hell, we could just sit here watching TV in the evenings. So... what do you think?”

Don felt like someone had pulled the rug from under his feet. “You want me to quit my job?”

Owen put a hand on his shoulder. “I know it seems a bit of a radical idea, but think about it. We could be a real couple, not just... just two guys who live together. I’ve got to be honest, Don, it can get pretty lonely when you’re not here. I miss you, you know?”

It took Don a few seconds to remember how to speak, his train of thought seemed to have run into a brick wall. “I... Owen... it’s my _job_. It’s all I’ve ever done.”

“I know. But look at what that job’s doing to you. The paranoia, the bad dreams...”

“They’re not dreams. You...”

“You see? You’re getting all uptight right now. This isn’t like you, baby. Murderers, rapists, the scum of the earth you deal with every day... they’re screwing with your head. I want to make you better.”

He was shaking his head in protest. “I can’t. I can’t quit. Being a cop... it’s who I am. If I don’t have that, I got nothing.”

Owen’s hand slipped off of his shoulder. “Oh. I see. Nothing, huh?”

The older man’s tone had turned as cold as ice, and Don felt his blood freeze along with it. “No, that’s not what I...”

“No, it’s Ok. It was foolish of me to think I could ever be enough for you. I guess that’s why you call out other men’s names in your sleep, right? Your boss, your little friend Danny... no wonder you’re so desperate to get back to work.”

“That was... I have no idea what that was.” It was true, he really couldn’t figure out what that dream had been about. Nor could he get it out of his head.

“After all, I’m just the guy that puts a roof over your head and food on the table. Nice clothes, vacations, a car... No, it’s not as if I’ve ever done anything you should be grateful for. No, you skip off back to work, I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you. Taylor’ll probably have you bent over his desk the second you walk through the door.”

Don’s breath caught in his chest. He felt outraged at the accusation, and yet at the same time... oh fuck! An almost unbearable heat flared in the pit of his stomach. What the hell was wrong with him? He shifted slightly, trying to hide his arousal. 

“It’s stupid really,” Owen continued, his voice raising. “You know, I’ve actually been under the impression that the last four years meant something. Obviously I was mistaken. Still, it would have been nice to know you weren’t serious right from the beginning, you know how I hate to have my time wasted.”

Don was so tense it almost hurt. He wanted to protest, but Owen’s fingers were twitching, a warning sign he had learned to recognise a long time ago. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, doing his best to sound contrite. “I never meant to make you feel that way.”

“Oh, you didn’t, huh?” Owen sneered. “Could’ve fooled me. So, how long were you planning on taking me for a ride? Were you going hang around until I’d spent every last cent I have on you? Or was I just a bit of light relief, a plaything to be thrown away when you got bored of me? I’ve only ever been a joke to you, haven’t I? Yes, I bet you and your buddies all have a great laugh at my expense when my back’s turned. How many of them are you screwing, anyway? Is it just your boss? Your little pal Messer’s got to feature somewhere. How pathetic is that, huh? He dumps you and you still go running back to him like a bitch in heat.”

“Owen, I swear, I’ve never...”

“Bullshit. You two were going at it for years before I met you, you really expect me to believe you aren’t still fucking each other’s brains out every chance you get?”

Don was on the verge of panicking. He had to get Owen to calm down. “If... if I’ve ever done anything to make you believe I wasn’t serious about us, I’m sorry. I promise there’s no one else. Me an’ Danny... we barely even talk any more. There’s nothing going on with him, or anyone else, I swear.”

“And I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

“It’s all I have. Owen, please, what’ve I gotta do to get you to trust me?” He glanced down. Owen’s fingers were still twisting fitfully.

“I can’t trust you. Not when you spend hours every day with _them_ and I get to see you on your day off, if you even get one. I offer you a solution and you turn it down... What am I supposed to think?”

Don swallowed. He felt like he had something stuck in his throat. “You... really want me to give up work?”

Owen turned towards him, eyes watery. “I really think it’s best for both of us. I get to spend time with the man I love, and you... you get to recover, to get all that shit out of your head and just... be happy. That’s all I’ve ever wanted. If that's not what you want...” 

He bit his lip, wishing that there was something, anything else he could say. “...I’ll think about it.”

Owen couldn’t have looked happier if he’d won the lottery. “That’s my boy! I knew you’d come round. It’s for the best, you’ll see.” He leaned forward, slipping a hand around the back of Don’s neck, and kissed him. “We’re going to be so happy, baby, just you and me. Now, breakfast. Give me fifteen minutes and I’ll have it ready for you.” He disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Don reeling at his abrupt change of demeanour. 

He sat, staring into space. None of this felt real. He’d said he’d think about it, but there could be no doubt about what that really meant. Owen would allow no going back. He’d escaped those punishing fists, and in doing so had given away the last of himself. 

He could hear clattering from the kitchen, Owen cooking up a storm. They would eat breakfast together this morning, and tomorrow morning, and the morning after that, and the morning after that... He would be here, all day, every day.

Oh God...

 

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Danny was half sat, half leaning on the edge of Mac’s desk, scuffing his shoe against the carpet. He was certainly a sight for sore eyes, although Mac wished his lover looked a little happier.

“Hey, Danny. You Ok?”

The younger man looked up as he walked in. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You look preoccupied.”

Danny shrugged. “Ah, it’s nothin’. Just workin’ with this Garcia guy. I mean, he’s Ok, I guess, but he’s... not Don.” He sounded almost wistful.

“Did you manage to get through to him?” Mac asked.

“Yeah, eventually. I talked to him this morning. He seems OK, says the doctor’s advised him to take some time off. Stress, apparently.”

Mac nodded. In truth, he was more than a little annoyed that he had had to find out about Don’s absence from Danny, he would have thought the detective might have had the decency to call him himself. “So, what did you want to talk to me about?”

Danny pushed a file across the desk towards him. “Tomasz Krol, age forty two. Died of electrocution.”

Mac looked at the picture at the front of the folder, a photograph of the crime scene, and winced. “He must have pissed someone off pretty badly.”

“Well, I thought you might be interested in that someone. Got the tox results; Tomasz Krol had ketamine in his system.”

Mac glanced up at him. “Coincidence?”

Danny shook his head. “Krol’s passport was left in plain view for us to find, just like Serena’s purse and Stephen Riggs’s wallet. Sid found no evidence of sexual activity or penetration during the autopsy, but when I processed the vic’s clothing I found semen in his underwear. DNA doesn’t match Krol.”

Mac flipped slowly through the pictures in the file. “Semen without sex. There’s our anomaly. Which makes Tomasz Krol our fifth victim.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The usual apologies for taking so long to update, I'm a really slow writer. Will try and speed it up a little if I can.  
> There are a few trigger warnings for this chapter, which I'll leave at the end to avoid giving away any of the story. Please check them before reading if you have any concerns.  
> Without trying to sound too needy, if anyone wants to leave feedback I'd love to know how this is going. If there's anything you particularly like/don't like etc, I'd really like to hear your views. Thank you :)

The young man looked impassively down at the crime scene photo, then back up at Danny. “I’m supposed to feel bad about this?”

It wasn’t the response Danny had been expecting. “So you do know Tomasz Krol?”

“Know him? We live in the same building. At least, we did.” He glanced down at the picture again. “It’s a bad way to go, but I’m not gonna be shedding too many tears over the guy, if that’s what you were expecting.”

“You didn’t like Mr Krol. Is that why you killed him?”

The man looked startled. “Hey, he wasn’t exactly my favourite person, but I didn’t hate him enough to kill him.”

“Your semen in his underwear suggests you were feeling something more than hate.”

“What? That’s not possible!”

“It’s completely possible if you were sleeping with him.”

“Trust me, Tomasz is the last person I would ever have slept with.”

“What, you’re gonna tell me you’re not gay? C’mon, Miles, you were with your boyfriend when we picked you up.”

The man, Miles Donovan, groaned with exasperation. “I am, Tomasz wasn’t. I should know. I met him in the hallway once and started flirting with him, just jokin’ around, y’know? What can I say, he was a good lookin’ guy. He punched me in the face, broke my nose. Called me a fag and said if I ever came near him again he’d kill me.”

“So you killed him first, right?”

“I told you, I didn’t kill him. I haven’t even seen him for weeks, I do my best to keep out of his way.”

“Then how did your semen get on his clothing?”

“I don’t know, Ok? I never went near the guy, I swear.”

Sensing he wasn’t going to get anything more from his suspect, Danny terminated the interview and left the room, where he found Mac standing outside. “Whadd’ya make of that?”

Mac looked thoughtful. “Well, out of all of our suspects, he’s the first one to admit to knowing the victim, but if their relationship was as sour as Miles says, it’s unlikely they ever had sex, at least not consensually, and Sid ruled out rape at the autopsy.”

“Maybe he didn’t get that far. He wouldn’t be the first potential rapist who couldn’t hold it in, if you know what I mean. Maybe Miles was pissed off that he couldn’t finish the job and killed Tomasz out of rage.”

“It doesn’t fit. There were several knives lying around that kitchen, but the killer goes to the trouble of tying the vic to a chair and electrocuting him? That indicates calculation, not rage. And Tomasz’s death is far too similar to our other victims.”

“Similar in that they’re all different?”

“You know what I mean,” Mac replied, shooting him a sideways glance. “These deaths are all too specific. We’ve got snake venom, burning, poisoning, a car smash, and now electrocution. They may all be different, but they’re certainly not random. They mean something to the killer. If we can find out what that meaning is, it might lead us to our murderer.”

 

                                                           XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

June 29th

  
“Eureka!”

Mac stopped in his tracks, turned, and stepped into the nearest office. “Did you really just shout Eureka?”

Adam spun his chair around to face him. “I’ve figured out what connects our victims.”

“And that is..?”

Adam paused, as if for dramatic effect. “...Death.” He spread his hands like a showman who has just finished a complex magic trick.

Mac felt his patience wane. “We know the victims are all dead, Adam. If that was a joke it’s not a very good one.”

“Uh, no... no, that’s not, uh... Look.”

Adam indicated several photographs which he had pinned to the wall. Some were pictures of the victims, others were of people Mac did not recognise. “Turns out most of our vics had criminal records, so I took a closer look at those.” He pointed at one picture. “Our first victim, Stephen Riggs, locked inside a dumpster and incinerated; he served two years in prison for manslaughter. He was smoking pot in bed, dropped the joint and set the carpet alight. He got out, but the woman in the apartment next door didn’t.” Adam drew a line with his finger to a photo of a smiling young woman. “Her smoke alarm was faulty, she died from smoke inhalation. Serena Blake, mown down by a car: had one too many drinks one night and gave her friend a ride home. She crashed her car. The friend wasn’t wearing a seat belt, she was thrown through the windshield and died a week later from head injuries. Serena got off with probation because the judge believed her claim that her drink had been spiked. Reid Hudson, drug dealer, bled to death from an overdose of warfarin: he sold two kids cocaine that had been cut with rat poison, which contains..?”

“Warfarin.”

“Right. Neither kid survived, Hudson got off on a technicality. And Tomasz Krol was convicted of selling faulty electrical goods after a woman was electrocuted by a toaster she bought from him. That’s the link. Our vics all, in one way or another, caused the death of another person.”

“And in each case, cause of death mirrors their crime.” Mac looked at the last picture. “What about Mariko? What was her crime?”

“Uh, nothing... but she _was_ questioned about the death of a co-worker eight months ago. Mariko worked in a pet store that specialised in exotic reptiles. The co-worker died after being bitten by a coral snake that had escaped from its tank. Someone hadn’t secured the lid properly, but it was never proved who.”

“A snake bite... hence the injection of snake venom. Our killer is seeking revenge for the people who died at the hands of our victims. But why would anyone go to such lengths to avenge a group of strangers?”

“Well, there was something else I noticed.” Adam looked pleased with himself. “In each of these cases, these people were treated by the same doctor before they died, a Dr Kristina Palmgren. She used to work at Horizon Medical Centre in Ohio, but was asked to leave when their stock of ketamine started to go missing.”

 

                                                           XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Jo raised a hand and knocked on the door. “Dr Palmgren? It’s detective Danville, we spoke two days ago. There’s a few more questions I need to ask you, if you could please come to the door?” She waited, listening, before turning to Danny and Mac. “Guess there’s no one home.”

“Then there’s no one to object if we take a look around.” Mac looked over at the superintendent. “Do you have a key to this apartment?”

The superintendent, a tubby, nervous-looking man, hesitantly held up a bunch of keys. “I’m not sure about this...”

“We’ve already shown you the search warrant, Mr Groves. There’ll be no comeback for this.”

Looking a little more reassured, the man stepped forward, selected a key, and unlocked the door. The three CSIs stepped cautiously over the threshold. The apartment was scrupulously neat, even the books on the bookshelf were in alphabetical order.

“Dr Palmgren obviously doesn’t have kids,” Jo commented. “You know, my place could look like this if Ellie would stop leaving her books all over the place.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s all Ellie’s fault,” Danny replied dryly.

“It’s true. I swear, she is the messiest kid.”

“C’mon, Jo, I’ve seen your desk at the lab.”

“Well, Ok, maybe I allow the laundry hamper to overflow occasionally, but that’s beside the point.”

Jo peered around the bedroom door, ensuring the coast was clear, before going in. The bedroom was just as pristine as the rest of the apartment, scatter cushions perfectly arranged on the bed, pale blue curtains tied back neatly from the window, not a speck of dust on any surface. Jo crossed to the dressing table, where Dr Palmgren’s cosmetics were lined up in front of a mirror. It only took a few seconds to find what she was looking for.

“Mac,” she called.

Mac put his head around the door.

Jo held up a small silver tube. “Porcelain Blush. The same lipstick I found on the airbag.” She started opening the drawers under the table, listening to Mac pottering around on the other side of the room. She found several journals in one of the drawers, and flipped through the pages of one of them. It appeared that Palmgren documented every aspect of her life, right down to what she ate for lunch and which shoes she had worn on what day. But Jo could find no reference to any of the victims.

“It’s the first time I’ve met a doctor with legible handwriting,” she said. “There’s a key in here, too.”

“Jo.”

She turned. Mac was trying the handle of the large, walk-in closet. “It’s locked.” Jo held up the key she had found, but Mac shook his head. “Too big.”

Jo rifled through the other drawers. “There’s no other keys here. Dr Palmgren’s single. Why would she bother to lock her closet if she’s the only one here?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

Mac put his shoulder against the door and gave it a shove. It took a few goes to force it open, but at last the detectives stood before the open closet, the bright summer sunshine that streamed into the room illuminating the interior. Danny, having found nothing in the kitchen or the living room, stepped up behind them and gave a low whistle.

The closet walls were covered in pieces of paper; articles torn from newspapers, photocopies of medical reports, and several candid photographs.

Jo leaned closer and studied one of the articles. “’Lucy Marsh, age twenty seven, died last night after a fire started in a neighbouring apartment spread to her home’,” she read aloud. “Ms Marsh was treated in hospital but died from the effects of smoke inhalation. Police arrested a man at the scene on suspicion of starting the fire’.” Below the newspaper clipping was a photo of Stephen Riggs, taken outside of his mother’s house. His face was bisected by a long slash of black marker pen ink. Pictures of Serena Blake, Mariko Takashima, Reid Hudson and Tomasz Krol had all been defaced in the same way. Most of the pictures had been taken in the street, clearly without the victims’ knowledge. There were several more photographs of people Jo did not recognise.

“The good doctor’s future victims?” Danny speculated.

“I’d put money on it,” Mac replied. “We need to find out who all these people are, they could be in immediate danger.

 

                                                         XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Jo sighed and put the phone down. “Ok, I’ve got officers en route to pick up two of our potential victims. Another two are in prison and one committed suicide three months ago. How’re you doing?”

“I’ve found another three,” Mac replied. “Those were the ones whose details were in the newspaper clippings. But there’s at least half a dozen other pictures here with just a name written on them, no addresses, no phone numbers, nothing.”

“If Palmgren didn’t get details of these people from the news, then they must be known to her personally. Maybe they’re patients of hers.”

“Maybe, but the hospital won’t release their patient records until we get a subpoena, and by then we could have another body on our hands. It’s Palmgren’s day off, she could be out stalking another victim as we speak.”

Mac was interrupted by his cell phone buzzing on the desk by his elbow. “Taylor. Mm-hmm. Yes.” He picked up the pictures from the desk and shuffled through them. “Yes, it could be. Ok, thank you.” He hung up and looked up at Jo. “A Beverly James just called the precinct and reported her daughter Tylissa missing.” He held up a picture of a young girl and turned it round. The name Tylissa James was written on the back of it. “What are the odds?”

Jo held out her hand for the photograph. “I know this girl. I met her at the hospital when I went to talk to Dr Palmgren two days ago. She looked scared to death to be there. What could a little girl have done to make Palmgren target her?”

“I don’t know.” Mac looked grim. “But we have to find her, fast.”

Jo was looking thoughtfully at the photo. “Stephen Riggs, Tomasz Krol and Serena Blake all died where we found them, but Reid Hudson and Mariko were killed somewhere else and then dumped. Their deaths were slower, more drawn out. Palmgren would need somewhere private to carry out those murders. If we can find it, we might find Tylissa.”

“I think I might know where she is.” Danny had walked into the room as Jo was speaking. “That key we found in Palmgren’s apartment? It's for a storage unit in Brooklyn.”

 

                                                          XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Mac walked slowly, trying not to let his shoes make too much noise on the pitted concrete. The doors of the storage units all looked the same, their white paint turned grey by years worth of dust and grime. Some of the doors were numbered, several more were missing their numbers, which could pose a problem. If Palmgren was holding Tylissa James in one of these units, the last thing he wanted was to waste time looking for an unnumbered door.

The sun beating down on the yard was almost unbearably hot, and several times Mac had to raise a hand to wipe the perspiration from his brow. Danny and Jo followed him, with Garcia bringing up the rear. The detective was bright, and competent enough, but Danny was right, he was no Don Flack.

“138,” he noted, gesturing towards a door that, miraculously, had its rusty metal numbers still attached.

“Palmgren’s unit is number 144,” Jo said. She started counting along the row of doors. “142, 143... There.” She pointed towards a door from which a solitary 4 hung upside down. She, Mac and Danny moved towards it as quietly as they could, and pulled up short when they heard a faint clattering sound from within.

Mac drew his gun and gestured for Jo and Danny to wait on either side of the door. He bent down, grasped the handle, and pulled upwards. The door didn’t move.

“Do these things lock from the inside?” Garcia asked, a little more loudly than Mac would have liked.

There was another clatter from within the storage unit. Mac shrugged, pulled Palmgren’s key from his pocket and tried it in the lock. It made a loud, metallic grinding sound as it turned, and then a sharp clunk signalled that the door was open. Knowing that the sound would have alerted whoever was inside, Mac grabbed the handle again and hauled the door up. Sunlight flooded into the little square room, and his eyes adjusted in time to see several small, black forms scurry out of sight between the stacks of boxes that filled the unit. “Rats,” he murmured.

“Well, now we know what was making the noise,” Danny remarked, as another of the creatures skittered across a pile of boxes, knocking one over.

“My Gramma used to have rats in her basement,” Garcia put in. “Grampa took his shotgun down there to take care of ‘em, managed to shoot her cat by mistake. She yelled at him for, like, three hours.”

Mac cast his eye over the boxes. None of them looked big enough to hide a person inside. There were no signs of a struggle, no blood, none of the usual accoutrements of murder, and the months worth of dust and rat droppings that covered every surface indicated that no one had cleaned in here for quite a while. If Dr Palmgren had some secret location in which to dispatch her victims, this wasn’t it.

His cell phone rang. It was Hawkes’s voice at the other end of the line. “Mac. Any sign of Tylissa?”

“Nothing here, Sheldon.”

“Then I might have another lead. Adam and I were going over Dr Palmgren’s journals. This woman writes down everything, right down to the brand of honey she stirs into her oatmeal every morning. Everything she does at the hospital is documented, she substitutes letters for patient’s names. But there are some days over the last few months where she’s barely written anything, she simply says, ‘Worked at St. Theresa’s.’ Two of these entries are in the weeks leading up to the murders of Reid Hudson and Mariko Takashima.”

“St. Theresa’s. Another hospital?”

“That's what I thought at first, but we checked, and there _is_ no St. Theresa’s hospital in New York. It's an old tuberculosis sanatorium that closed down in the 60’s. It’s been empty ever since.”

“The perfect place to commit murder. We’re on our way there now. And we’ll need some backup.”

 

                                                             XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

The grim, grey facade of St. Theresa’s sanatorium rose from the long grass and tangled thorn bushes like a fortress in some dark fairy-tale. About a dozen officers had been there to meet them on their arrival, they would need all the help they could get to explore the vast expanse of the old building. Mac had split them up in order to cover more ground, but even knowing that there were other people in the building did nothing to assuage the unease Jo felt as they moved as quietly as they could through the dark, empty rooms. She had what she liked to think of as a healthy belief in the supernatural, and if ghosts existed this place would be crawling with them. She half expected to see shadowy figures appearing on the periphery of her vision, gaunt, pale forms in doorways or behind windows, watching...

You’ve watched one too many movies, she chided herself. How must Reid and Mariko have felt, brought to this awful place to die?

“Ok,” she whispered as they crept past a row of empty beds, mattresses leaking stuffing and sheets grey and rotting, “please tell me I’m not the only one who’s just a little creeped out by this place.”

“You’re not the only one,” Mac replied.

“Well, I’m sorry you’re stuck with me. I’m sure you’d much rather have Danny here to hold your hand.” Mac shot her a narrow eyed glare. Jo smirked back at him. Danny had gone with Garcia to check the upper floors.

A faint sound stopped Jo in her tracks. She listened, unsure if she was imagining it. Mac gave her an enquiring look, and she held up a hand, motioning for him to stay quiet. There, again, from somewhere deep in the bowels of the old building, so quiet she was barely sure she’d heard anything at all. She started moving in the direction she thought the sound had come from, and Mac followed.

They stepped into a gloomy corridor, the sunlight diffused by the dirt that clung to the cracked glass in the windows. There was graffiti on the walls out here, but even that looked old. And there was the sound again, amplified slightly in the narrow hallway. Mac had heard it too this time, he turned his head to peer down the corridor towards the noise. 

The corridor lead to a flight of stone steps, which receded downwards into the dark. As if this damn place couldn’t get any creepier, Jo thought. She was grateful when Mac pulled his flashlight from his pocket and shone it down the stairs, illuminating a small patch of the darkness. She had to tread carefully, the steps were littered with debris, and the stonework was beginning to crumble.

A sudden, high pitched sound pierced the air, and this time there was no mistaking what it was. Someone at the bottom of the stairs was screaming.

Jo dashed down the stairs after Mac, gun drawn, almost losing her footing as her shoe struck an empty bottle halfway down. The door at the foot of the steps was ajar, the faded white letters stencilled across it read ‘Morgue.”

“Please,” a girl’s voice was sobbing, “please, don’t. I won’t tell anyone, I swear, just please let me go.”

Mac slowly pushed the door open.

“I can’t.” Jo recognised Palmgren’s accent. “I’m not doing this for my sake, Tylissa. This is justice. You deserve to die.”

“Why? What did I do?”

“You know exactly what you did, you murdering little bitch!”

Floodlights had been erected around the little room. The steel table that stood in the corner was very much like the ones in the morgue at the crime lab, except that the people Jo saw there were usually dead. Tylissa James, on the other hand, was very much alive, struggling against the ropes which bound her to the table, dressed only in her underwear, crying and pleading for her life. Over her stood the doctor. She held a scalpel in her hand, which hovered dangerously close to the girl’s stomach.

Mac pushed the door a little further open, and swore under his breath as it creaked loudly on its hinges.

Jo ducked back behind the door as Palmgren whipped around, praying she hadn’t been spotted. If the doctor approached to investigate the cause of the sound they would be able to grab her with no danger to Tylissa.

“Detective Danville. You think I didn’t see you? Come out.”

Damn! Cautiously, Jo stepped out into the little room. Palmgren was still standing over Tylissa, but the scalpel was now pressed against the girl’s throat.

“I would be very careful if I were you, detective. My hand might slip if I become too distracted.”

Jo moved closer. She kept her gun raised, but she couldn’t risk taking a shot. Palmgren was right, one slip could prove fatal for Tylissa. “Put it down, doctor.”

Palmgren shook her head. “I know you won’t believe me, but she deserves this. They all did.”

“I don’t want to have to shoot you. Put it down now.”

“Don’t you understand? You should be thanking me, detective. I’m doing your job for you, I’m ridding the city of these criminals, these murderers. I’m doing what you people are failing to do.”

There were two things that Jo prided herself on; her southern charm, and her ability to spot an opportunity when one presented itself. She may not have been quick enough to keep herself out of sight, but the doctor clearly hadn’t seen Mac, concealed behind the door. If she could get Palmgren talking, if she could keep her distracted...

Jo let out an exasperated sigh and abruptly lowered her gun. “You know what, you’re right. If I had my way, people like Stephen Riggs and Reid Hudson would all be thrown into a pit somewhere and left to rot. We go through hell to catch these people and find enough evidence to prosecute, only to watch them get off on a technicality, it makes me so mad...”

Palmgren snorted. “Very good, detective. I could almost believe you.”

“It’s true. You know, when I worked in D.C. a colleague of mine made a mistake during processing and then tried to cover it up. We knew the guy was guilty, but I still had to report it to the defence. I mean, how is _that_ fair? He’s the criminal, but it’s my job on the line if I let him go down. You can probably Google the whole damn thing.” She stepped closer. “You know, my boss would throw a fit if he found this out, but I actually kind of admire you. We all wish we could give these bastards a taste of their own medicine, you’ve actually got the guts to do it. Talk about poetic justice! Where on earth did you get snake venom to kill Mariko Takashima?”

“I have a friend in the cosmetics industry, some of their products use venom. I told her I needed some for an experiment.” Palmgren kept the scalpel pressed to the girl’s neck, but her expression was now betrayed curiosity rather than suspicion. “How did you know it was me?” she asked.

Sensing that the bait had been taken, Jo risked moving forward, until she stood a few feet from the table. “Well you didn’t make it easy. We only made the link when we realised that it was you who treated Lucy Marsh and all those other poor people. I tell you, I could never be a doctor. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to fight to save a person’s life and have them die in front of you in spite of all that effort.”

“And then to watch their killers serve barely a couple of years in prison, or go completely unpunished,” Palmgren snarled bitterly. “But knowing I treated them isn’t enough. It could have been a coincidence.”

“It was, until we spoke to our original suspects. Because you treated them as well, didn’t you? You took samples from them; blood, saliva... as a doctor, you had the resources to collect and store their DNA until you could use it. Although Miles Donovan did think it a little strange that you asked for a sperm sample, it’s not as if he could get his boyfriend pregnant, after all. Their testimony was enough to get us a search warrant for your apartment.”

“Why aren’t those people in jail? You had their DNA, what more did you need?”

“Except we look at more than just DNA. Like the fact that the saliva on the bottle at the Riggs crime scene didn’t match the teeth marks on the lid, or that Lou Garret didn’t have the flu when we picked him up for Reid Hudson’s death. It’s a common misconception. People think DNA’s completely infallible, they don’t realise the huge amount of evidence we’re forced to go through to make a case. That’s one thing I don’t understand though. I get you wanting to rid the earth of people like Stephen Riggs, Tomasz Krol and Serena Blake, but why go to so much trouble to frame innocent people for their deaths?”

Palmgren spat on the dusty stone floor. “Whores, junkies, homosexuals... none of those people are innocent. They would all have ended up hurting someone one day. I was doing the world a favour, taking them off the streets before they could destroy someone’s life.”

Jo nodded, as if in agreement. She caught movement on the edge of her vision, and cheered internally. Mac was edging around the perimeter of the room, keeping to the shadows as he inched round behind the doctor. She stepped forward again, keeping Palmgren’s attention squarely on her.

"What about Ohio? How many people did you kill there?"

"Seven." Palmgren sounded almost proud. "There would have been a lot more, if they hadn't found out about the ketamine. They thought I was taking it for myself, can you believe that? As if I would lower myself to the same level as the vermin I was eradicating."

Jo glanced down at the girl on the table. She wished she could put her arms around her and explain that she was just playing along, and she had to fight hard to keep her expression neutral. “And what about Tylissa? I know I can be a little sentimental when it comes to kids, but I just can’t fathom what a fifteen year old girl could have done that was so terrible.”

Palmgren lowered her gaze to Tylissa, a look of pure disgust on her face. “You think she’s sweet and pure because she’s a child? She’s worse than all of the others. She killed a baby, her own child!”

Jo’s jaw dropped, that was the last thing she had expected to hear.

Tylissa’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. “No,” she whispered, shaking her head frantically, “No, no, no...”

“She was at the hospital the day you came to talk to me, detective. She came to me, because she didn’t want her mother to find out. She was bleeding, you see. At first I thought she might be miscarrying, and then she told me, she _admitted_ , that she’d had an abortion. She cried in my office, she was scared because she was still bleeding three weeks later. No tears for the baby she’d murdered, oh no, just whining and self pity. This sweet, innocent child, who could not exercise enough self control to keep her legs closed, had her unborn baby scraped from her womb without a second thought!” Palmgren’s hand was moving, she dragged the scalpel slowly down Tylissa’s body until the blade came to rest once again on her stomach. “She had that baby removed as if it were nothing more than a growth, and so I am going to remove the organ that should have carried it. I’m not a surgeon, I’ve never performed a hysterectomy, but I don’t think that really matters, do you?”

The doctor angled the scalpel to make her first incision. Jo darted forward, but Mac was closer, and quicker. He was on Palmgren in a second, grabbing her wrist and twisting until she cried out with pain and the blade clattered to the floor. She swung at him with her free hand, fingernails like talons aimed at his face, but Mac saw it coming and dodged the blow, pulling her to the ground and yanking her hands behind her back.

Seeing that her boss had everything under control, Jo turned to Tylissa. The girl was crying hysterically, and trembling so badly that the steel table rattled beneath her. Jo quickly untied her, helped her to sit up, and put her arms around her, the same way she did with Ellie when she was upset. Tylissa’s arms clamped tightly around her waist, clinging to her as if she would never let go. 

Mac pulled Palmgren to her feet, hands firmly cuffed behind her. She was hissing like an angry cat, and shooting Jo a look of pure hatred. “You lying bitch. I thought you, of all people, might understand. You’re on their side, on the side of this murdering little whore. You’re no better than they are!”

Jo glared back at her. “The only murderer I see in this room is you. But you’ll be among your own kind soon enough.” She turned away in disgust. All that bullshit she had spouted for the doctor’s benefit had left a bad taste in her mouth. She could hear Mac reading Palmgren her rights as he hauled her out of the morgue. She raised a hand and stroked Tylissa’s hair. “It’s Ok, sweetheart, you’re safe now, it’s Ok.”

 

                                                          XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Tylissa’s hands were still shaking as she sipped at the tea that Jo had brought her. They were sitting at Don’s vacant desk, Jo resting her chin on her hand as she watched the girl drink. “How’re you feeling now?” she asked.

Tylissa looked up at her, eyes widening. “Will my mom be here soon?”

“She’s on her way right now.” Jo’s eyebrows drew downward in sympathy as Tylissa’s face betrayed both relief and apprehension. “You’re worried about telling her?”

“Do I have to?”

“It’s going to come out at trial, Tylissa, it’s better she finds out now.”

“She’s going to be so mad at me.”

There was a sudden commotion near to the door, and Jo looked up. A short, heavily built woman was looking frantically around the office, clearly searching for something. “Lissa?” she called. “Lissa, baby?”

“Mom?” Tylissa started up from the desk.

The woman saw them and hurried over, followed by a tall, heavy set man with a shaved head. She reached the desk and flung her arms around her daughter, practically lifting her off her feet as she hugged her, tears running down her cheeks. “Oh my God, Lissa, are you Ok? Are you hurt? Oh, baby, I was so scared, I thought I’d lost you. Oh, thank God you’re Ok.”

The man turned to Jo. Unlike Tylissa’s mother, he was calm, almost impassive. “Is she Ok?” he asked.

Something about his demeanour made Jo rather uncomfortable. “She’s as Ok as she can be after what she’s been through, Mr..?”

“Heath, Tyrese Heath. Lissa’s stepfather. C’mon, Bev, she’ll be fine once we get her home.”

Beverly James didn’t seem to have heard. Still with her arms locked tight around Tylissa, she looked up at Jo. “Thank you, detective. Oh, thank you so much for finding her. Why did they take her? Why did they take my daughter?”

Tylissa pulled away from her mother. “I’m sorry, Momma,” she said.

“Sorry? For what? I don’t understand.”

Tylissa opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Jo took a slow breath, was she about to destroy the happy reunion? “Your daughter was abducted by a serial killer named Kristina Palmgren. She’s been killing people whom she believes to be murderers.”

“But... that makes no sense. Lissa’s not a murderer, she wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Tylissa burst into tears, leaving her mother looking even more shocked and confused than ever. Jo put a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Ms James, Tylissa had an abortion a few weeks ago.”

Beverly was staring at her daughter as if she had never seen her before. “No, that’s... that’s not true. Lissa’s never been pregnant, she’s never even been with a boy. Lissa..?” Tylissa put her hands over face, unable to look at her mother, who’s face had suddenly hardened. “Tylissa, what have you done? Tell me the truth!”

“It’s that boy across the street.” Tylissa’s stepfather sounded disgusted. “That Carl Gibson. I told you she’d get herself in trouble if you let her hang out with him, and now look what’s happened. You’re too soft on her, that’s your problem. Kids like her can’t be trusted. Look at her, she went behind your back in order to keep her dirty little secret.”

“No!” Tylissa screamed at him. “No... I didn’t want to. You told me to get rid of it, you said she’d kick us both out if she found out!”

Beverly looked at the man, aghast. “What is she talking about?”

“Who knows? Look at her, she’s fuckin’ hysterical.”

The general chatter of the precinct’s main office quietened.

“You made me go to the clinic. You wouldn’t let me keep it. You said you couldn’t afford any more kids.” Tylissa dissolved into sobs.

Beverly let go of the crying girl and slowly turned to her husband. She barely came up to his shoulder, but at that moment, if Jo was placing bets, all her money would have been on Beverly James.

“What did you do to my little girl?”

Heath gestured at Tylissa. “She ain’t no little girl.”

“She’s fifteen.”

“Old enough to know better. She knew exactly what she was doing, always walkin’ around the house in those little shorts, batting her eyelashes at me. I mean, what the hell was I supposed to do? If you weren’t at work the whole time, I wouldn’t have to go lookin’ for it someplace else.”

In all her time as a cop, and even long after she retired, Jo would always swear that it was the best upper cut she had ever seen. Beverly’s fist connected with Heath’s jaw with a tooth shattering crunch, knocking him off his feet and sending him crashing to the precinct floor. Several of the officers around them cheered. Beverly stood over him, enormous bosom heaving angrily. She glared at Jo. “You better get him out of here, detective, or you’ll have another murder on your hands.”

“I’ll do better than that.” Jo stepped forward and, with the help of another officer, dragged the man to his feet. “Tyrese Heath, you’re under arrest for statutory rape.”

Heath gawped at her. His mouth was bloody and his face was already swelling up. “You’re arresting me? You saw what she did, she just assaulted me, you should be arresting her!”

“You’re damn lucky I don’t do the same. You think this is bad, wait till you see what they do to child molesters in prison.”

“You’re going to take her word for it? That little slut?”

“I don’t have to. You just admitted it in a room full of cops. I’ve met some dumb people, but that takes the cake.”

Heath was dragged away, and Beverly turned her attention back to her daughter. Tylissa had calmed a little, but she was still shaking. “I’m sorry,” she whispered again.

Beverly put her arms around her. “No, baby, _I’m_ sorry. I’m sorry I ever brought that man into our lives. I’m sorry I didn’t... that I didn’t see what was going on. Oh, honey, why did you never tell me?”

Tylissa wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He made me promise never to say anything. He said if I told, you’d throw us both out, and then you’d be left with two jobs and three kids to look after all by yourself. And I thought... if he was doing it to me, maybe he’d leave little Tonya alone.”

“When... when did it start?”

“When I was thirteen.”

Tears gathered in Beverly’s eyes again, tears of grief this time. “Oh God, I’m a terrible mother.”

Jo felt compelled to speak. “I’ve seen a lot of terrible mothers, Ms James, and believe me, you’re the farthest thing from it.”

The woman sniffed and blinked up at her. “What do we do now?”

“Well, there’s counselling, for both the abuse and the attempted murder. It can really help. And Tylissa can decide if she wants to press charges against your husband...”

“Ex-husband.”

“...Ex-husband. It should be fairly easy to get a conviction, every cop in this room would fall over each other to tell a judge what they heard him say, but you don’t have to worry about that right now.”

“So can I take Lissa home now?”

Jo nodded. “Here.” She handed Beverly a card. “If you need anything, if you have any questions, call me.”

“We will.” Beverly took Jo’s hand and squeezed it tightly. “Thank you so, so much.”

Jo held out a hand to Tylissa, but instead of taking it, the girl threw her arms around her and hugged her. Jo hugged back. “Take care of yourself, honey, Ok?”

She watched them leave, Beverly’s arm locked protectively around her daughter. Tylissa would have a tough time of it over the next few months, but if anyone had a chance of getting through it and coming out whole on the other side, she did.

 

                                                        XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

 

Danny stepped out of the elevator and walked down the thickly carpeted hallway. It occurred to him that he had never been inside this building before, although with hindsight it was obvious why not; his presence would probably not have been welcomed, at least by one person. But he couldn’t go on pretending that nothing was happening, he couldn’t just sit around waiting for this thing to resolve itself. He found the door he was looking for, and knocked.

Don looked almost alarmed when he opened the door to find Danny on the other side. For a moment he thought the detective might slam the door in his face, but after a second or two he composed himself.

“Danny... What’re you doing here?”

“Just thought I’d stop by, let you know we bagged ourselves a serial killer this afternoon.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And, y’know, find out how you’re doin’. I never seem to be able to get you on the phone...”

“I’m, uh... I’m good. I mean, I’m... I’m fine.”

“Great.” He lowered his voice. “Is he here?”

There was a pause, as if Don was considering his answer. “No, he’s at a late meeting.”

“Then can I come in?”

Don glanced furtively down the hallway—afraid, perhaps, that one of the neighbours might hear their conversation. “Ok, but just for a minute.”

The apartment looked like something you’d see in a magazine—sleek, monochrome, and utterly sterile. There were a few fine art prints on the walls, a large sculpture on a sideboard. There was nothing of Don here; his books, family photos, his jacket flung carelessly over the back of a chair, all were conspicuous by their absence. Danny followed him through to the kitchen, where Don crossed straight to the sink and started scrubbing viciously at a large casserole dish.

“So, you wrapped up that case?”

Danny leaned against the kitchen counter. “Yeah, it was this vigilante doctor getting revenge for some old patients. And I made a new friend. You know detective Garcia?”

“Garcia? Yeah. He’s Ok once you get to know him.”

“Hey, what’d that cooking pot ever do to you? You look like you’re tryin’ to scrub a hole in it.”

“Can’t get this thing clean,” Don muttered through his teeth.

Danny watched his old friend intently. Don’s skin was an unhealthy grey colour, black rings like bruises around his bloodshot eyes. His hair was untidy, and at least two days worth of stubble lined his jaw.

“You look tired.” 

“Yeah... kinda difficult to sleep in this heat, y’know?”

“Don, you don’t have to lie to me. How are you? Really?”

“I told you, I’m fine. Jeez, what did he do, get a goddamn blowtorch and weld the food on here?”

Danny laid a hand on his shoulder. “Donnie... are you Ok?”

Don stopped scouring the dish and stood staring into the murky water. “Honestly... I don’t know.“

“What do you mean?”

Don turned around. Like Danny, he leaned back against the worktop, wiping his wet hands on the front of his jeans. “I don’t... know what’s going on. One minute I think everything’s Ok, and then the next...” He shook his head.

“What’s he done?”

“Nothing, that’s the point. It’s like... waiting for the other shoe to drop, y’know?”

Danny reached over and gave his hand a squeeze. There was a thick, rigid line of scar tissue on Don's forearm, one that he hadn't seen before. It had not yet faded to white, meaning it must only be a few months old. When had that happened? Why hadn't he noticed? 

“You gotta get out of here.”

“I can’t.” 

“Why the hell not?”

“Because last time I tried, he OD’d. Ended up in hospital having his stomach pumped.”

Danny gritted his teeth. If he ever got his hands on that bastard...

“Don, you know how that works, right? Guys like him, they say they can’t live without you, threaten to hurt themselves if you leave... they never go through with it. They may take a few pills or cut themselves a little, but suicide’s the last thing on their mind. God, I can’t believe I’m stood here explaining this to you. You’re a cop, you know all this.”

“I know. I know, but... if he does it again, if he miscalculates and takes too many...”

“It wouldn’t be your fault if he did,” Danny muttered savagely.

“You sound like you want it to happen.”

“What, you’d expect me to be upset? With what he’s doing to you..?”

“I told you, he’s not...”

“Yeah, not right now. But what about tomorrow, or next week, or in five years? I mean, how long are you planning on dragging this out for, huh? When does a punch or a slap or a burn become one too many? What’s it gonna take, Don?”

Don was looking coldly at him. “You’d better go, I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

“You know what, I hope he comes back. I hope he walks in on us right here. I’d rip his head off and shove it down his fuckin’ neck!”

“Ok, you need to go. Now.”

“Oh no, I’m not goin’ anywhere. I’m not letting you stay here with him.”

“It’s not up to you.”

“Why? Just tell me why! Why won’t you leave him?”

Don looked as though he was struggling to answer. “Because I got nothin’ else,” he admitted finally.

“That’s not true. That’s just what he wants you to think. He’s getting into your head an’ making you believe all this crap. Does he tell you he loves you? Huh? Does he make you believe that too? You think he’d treat you this way if he loved you?”

“Danny...”

“He doesn’t love you, Don, I do.”

The words that he’d wanted to say for so long were out of his mouth before he could stop them, for a moment he wasn’t even sure if he’d spoken out loud. He wondered if he should backtrack, perhaps deny that he’d meant it that way, but now he found that he didn’t regret saying it.

Don was staring at him in disbelief. “No you don’t,” he whispered.

“I do,” Danny repeated. “I always have.”

“You left.”

“I know. It was a mistake, Ok, a dumb, stupid, huge mistake. And even all these years later, I... I never should’a let you go, Donnie. I love you.”

The expression on Don’s face betrayed utter confusion. “...Why?”

Danny felt his heart break. Did Don really find the idea so impossible to believe? “Because... because it’s you. Because you’re Don Flack. You... you kick my ass at basketball and than make out like it’s because you’re a better player than me, when we both know it’s just ‘cause you’re taller. The worse a crime scene is, the more smart ass comments you make, ‘cos if we didn’t have something to laugh about we’d all probably fuckin’ cry. You talk too much when you’ve had a few beers. You hum to yourself real quietly when you think no one’s listening. Don’t you get it? You’re a whole person underneath this... this shadow he’s turned you into.”

Don lowered his head and looked blankly at the floor.

“You don’t remember? I’ll show you.” Danny stepped in front of Don and leaned into him, pressing him against the counter. He skimmed his palm over the detective’s unshaven cheek, before reaching up to run his fingers through the dark hair. Don’s startled blue eyes blinked at him—how many hours had he spent looking into those eyes?—and Danny could hear his unsteady breathing. He slid his hand behind Don’s neck and pulled him gently forward. Their lips met.

It was as though they had never been apart. Don’s kiss, hesitant at first but growing less so by the second, was the same fusion of soft but demanding, fierce but yielding, that Danny remembered. He tasted slightly metallic, the way he always did when he was feeling unwell, and Danny pulled him closer, as if his touch might somehow make him better. He slipped his free arm round the taller man’s waist, dismayed at how far around he could reach. His hand crept underneath the expensive-looking shirt and up Don’s back, feeling the shallow ridges of ribs beneath the skin. Don had lost weight; he wasn’t exactly skinny, but he was certainly thinner than he had been the last time Danny had touched him like this. And God, that had been so long ago. Too long. How many times had he caught himself imagining exactly this, the two of them, entwined, in love, just as they had been? And he’d been stupid enough to leave it all behind.

Don’s hand brushed against his hip, and Danny felt butterflies flutter in his stomach. The other hand slid around his shoulders, pulling him in tightly as if afraid to let go. He moaned against Don’s lips, the sound full of longing. It could have been mere seconds that they stood there, lost in each other, it could have been hours, or days; he didn’t know. Whatever it was, it could never be long enough. 

A sudden, high-pitched wail from down in the street pierced the quiet. It wasn’t particularly loud from up here in the tenth floor apartment, but it was enough to make Don jump and pull away from Danny, eyes wide with alarm. He turned his head towards the door, as if expecting to see someone standing there. Danny could feel him trembling.

“Hey, it’s Ok,” he reassured, “it’s Ok, it’s just a car alarm, that’s all. There’s no one there, it’s just you and me.”

Don shut his eyes and cursed under his breath; whether it was out of relief or because he was angry with himself for overreacting, Danny wasn’t sure. He suspected it was both. Don turned away from him, putting his hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders hunched over as though he were trying to shrink into himself. He was still shaking.

Danny put his arms around him again, resting his forehead against the back of Don’s neck. “I love you,” he murmured again. He dropped a kiss on the curve of his shoulder, and heard a wistful little sigh.

“You oughta go.”

“Do you want me to?”

“...No.”

Danny kissed his neck again, that same sensitive spot that he knew always drove him wild, and was rewarded with a shudder of pleasure from the bigger man. He nipped gently at the skin with his teeth, resisting the urge to clamp down and suck, to leave his mark on the pale flesh. His hand drifted down over Don's hip, fingertips digging softly into his inner thigh. He moved his body against him, knowing that Don must be able to feel his erection pressing against him. If he could just make him see, if he could make him understand...

Don was already hard, Danny could feel the ridge of his cock under his jeans. He ran the flat of his hand against it, not bothering to stifle a groan as Don arched back into him, his rear pushing against Danny's hips, eager and impatient. He unbuttoned the jeans and slipped his hand inside, grasping fingers caressing the smooth shaft, his own arousal growing as he listened to the low, deep noise his touch drew from Don's lips.

“Danny...”

The sound of his own name, spoken with such yearning, made him melt. How could he have given this up? “Can I..?” he breathed against Don's neck.

In response, Don's hand moved to the waistband of his jeans, pushing the blue denim down over his hips. Danny's free hand slipped down to help him. Even Don's skin felt just the way he remembered, warm and supple under his palm. There was another scar, thin and silver-white, probably a couple of years old. Danny had seen marks like that once before, on a woman who claimed her husband had beaten her with an extension cord. The scar ran right across the base of Don's spine. Whatever Owen had hit him with, it must have hurt like hell. 

And right now, Danny wanted nothing more than to take that hurt away. He unzipped his own pants, allowing them to slide down around his thighs, followed by his boxers. A quick glance along the counter revealed nothing that could be used for lubrication, so instead he spat into his palm, slicking his saliva along his length, and again, wanting his passage to be as easy as possible. He guided his cock between Don's cheeks, the taller man bending slightly to accommodate their difference in stature, and pressed cautiously inside. He heard Don take a sharp breath, and froze, afraid he might have hurt him, but after a few seconds the detective relaxed and leaned back against him, wanting more. Danny rocked his hips gently, every tiny movement magnified, every inch closer making his pulse quicken, until he was fully sheathed inside his old lover. If anything had ever felt this good before, he couldn't remember it.

He wrapped his arm around Don's waist again, fingers gliding under his shirt and up across his chest. Here were the scars he remembered, where they had pulled the shrapnel out of him after the bomb went off. Don had been so damn cocky about it afterwards, as if he had single handedly fought some epic battle. Only once had Danny seen beneath the front, when he had caught Don standing in front of the mirror, naked to the waist, staring at the scars, still raw and swollen from the surgery. “I almost died, Danny,” he'd said, as if realising it for the first time.

How many scars were there now, Danny wondered? If he could study every inch of Don's body, how much evidence would he see of that man's brutality? This would be an end to it though. When he left this place, Don would be walking out of the door with him. He felt something brush against his wrist, Don's hand seeking out his, their fingers curling around each other.

They moved together slowly, so slowly that they were almost not moving at all. This was not some hurried fumble, like the kind they'd had in the elevator on the way up to his old apartment, or that one time in the locker room at the precinct when Don had taken him up against the door, their combined weight enough to prevent anyone from walking in on them, although Danny had wondered aloud afterwards what their explanation would have been if someone had tried to get in. A quick fuck would not be enough to mend their broken bonds. Even if it could, that wasn't what Danny wanted. He was here, one with the man he had been craving for years, surrounded by him, breathing him in. He never wanted it to end. And when, finally, he felt his climax building, he savoured every second—the tingling that seemed to start in his toes and rise up through his body, the odd, quivering sensation in the pit of his stomach that at any other time might have been unpleasant. His fingers tightened around Don's cock, his hand moving in time with his hips, and heard him let out a long, low moan. The sound was enough to tip him over the edge, and he came with Don's name on his lips. The other man followed barely a second later, his body tensing in Danny's arms, head falling back as a guttural little cry escaped his throat.

Danny clung to Don's back as he came down. The only thing he could hear was the detective's heartbeat and his own ragged breathing. He didn't want to move.

Eventually the sounds of the real world filtered back through, breaking the spell, and he pulled away with a reluctant sigh. He felt incredible, almost like the time when he and Mac had...

Mac! Oh shit...

He froze, one hand still on Don's hip. He hadn't given Mac a second thought. It was as if, for that one moment of madness, the man had ceased to exist. His stomach felt like someone had tied a huge knot in it. What the hell had he been thinking? Had he even been thinking at all? He hastily yanked his pants up, as if, by covering himself, he might also cover up what had just happened. He looked at Don, who had hitched up his jeans and half turned towards him. What was he supposed to say to him? That this had all been a mistake, thank you and goodbye? He had seriously fucked up.

Don wouldn't meet his eye. They stood in uncomfortable silence, close enough to touch each other, yet so far apart.

“You'd better go,” Don said finally.

He didn't know what to do. He couldn't just walk out, he should at least say something to him, but he didn't think there were any words that could make this better.

“Danny...” Don's lips had tightened and he was blinking rapidly, trying not to let his composure slip. He still wouldn't look at him.

“Don... I...”

I love you. I'm sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I wish...

“Ok. Ok, I'll go.” He left Don standing in the kitchen and walked out.

Once outside, he sat down on the building's bottom step and put his head in his hands. 

He'd cheated on Mac. He'd actually cheated on Mac! The man had been his whole world, and he'd betrayed him. And with Don Flack, of all people. What the hell was he going to do now? Go home, wait for Mac to finish his shift, and pretend that nothing had happened? He couldn't lie to Mac. And what about Don? He'd seen the exhaustion, the fear, the scars. He'd walked into the home of a beaten, abused man, and instead of helping, he had taken the opportunity for a quick screw and then walked right back out again. What kind of person did that make him?

What had he done? Dear God, what had he done?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter contains talk of abortion and sexual abuse of a minor (age 15), nothing too graphic, but it's there. Also contains homophobia. The language used in these instances are the views of the characters, and in no way reflect my own views on either subject.


End file.
